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CONSCIENCE 



HECTOR MALOT 

X’ 

Translated from the French 

BY 

LITA ANGELICA RICE 


WITH PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS 



WORTHINGTON COMPANY 

747 BROADWAY 

1892 






Copyright, 1892, 


By WORTHINGTON CO, 



CONSCIENCE. 


PART FIRST. 

I. 

When the Bohemian Crozat escaped from poverty, 
by a good marriage that made him a citizen of the 
Rue de Vaugirard, he did not break with his old 
comrades ; instead of shunning them, or keeping 
them at a distance, he took pleasure in gathering 
them about him, glad to open his house to them, the 
comforts of which were very different from the attic 
of the Rue Ganneron that he had occupied for so 
long a time. 

Every Wednesday from four to seven o’clock he 
had a reunion at his house, the Hotel des Medicis, 
V and it was a holy day for which his friends prepared 
I themselves. When a new idea occurred to one of 

'I the habitues it was caressed, matured, studied in 

^ solitude, in order to be presented in full bloom at 
i the cenacle. 

I 

\ 


2 


Conscience. 


Crozat’s reception of his friends was pleasing, 
simple like the man, cordial on the part of the hus- 
band, as well as on the part of the wife, who, having 
been an actress, held to the religion of comrade- 
ship. On a table were small pitchers of beer and 
glasses ; within reach was an old stone jar from 
Beauvais, full of tobacco. The beer was good, the 
tobacco dry, and the glasses were never empty. 

And it was not silly subjects that were discussed 
here, worldly babblings, or gossiping about absent 
friends, but the great questions that ruled human- 
ity : philosophy, politics, society, and religion. 

Formed at first of friends, or, at least, of comra*des 
who had worked and suffered together, these re- 
unions had enlarged gradually, until one day the 
parlor of the Hotel des Medicis became a par- 
lotte" where preachers of ideas and of new religions, 
thinkers, reformers, apostles, politicians, aesthetes, 
and even babblers in search of ears more or less 
complaisant that would listen to them, met together. 
Any one might come who wished, and if one did 
not enter there exactly as one would enter an ordi- 
nary hotel, it was sufficient to be brought by an 
habiiue in order to have the right to a pipe, some 
beer, and to speak. 

One of the habituh^ Brigard, was a sort of an 
apostle who had acquired celebrity by practising in 
his daily life the ideas that he professed and 
preached. Count de Brigard by birth, he began by 
renouncing his title, which made him a vassal of 


Conscience. 


3 


the respect of men and of social conventions ; an 
instructor of law, he could easily have made a 
thousand or twelve hundred francs a month, but he 
arranged the number and the price of his lessons 
so that each day brought him only ten francs in 
order that he might not be a slave to money ; living 
with a wife whom he loved, he had always insisted, 
although he had two daughters, on living with her 
en union libre^" and in not acknowledging his 
children legally, because the law debased the ties 
which attached him to them and lessened his 
duties ; it was conscience that sanctioned these 
duties ; and nature, like conscience, made him the 
most faithful of husbands, the best, the most affec- 
tionate, the most tender of fathers. Tall, proud, 
carrying in his person and manners the native ele- 
gance of his race, he dressed like the porter at the 
corner, only replacing the blue velvet by chestnut 
velvet, a less frivolous color. Living in Clamart for 
twenty years, he always came to Paris on foot, and 
the only concessions that he made to convention- 
ality or to his comfort, were to wear sabots in win- 
ter, and to carry his vest on his arm in summer. 

Thus organized, he must have disciples, and he 
sought them everywhere — in the streets, where he 
button-holed those he was able to snatch under the 
trees of the Luxembourg Gardens, and on Wednes- 
day at the house of his old comrade Crozat. How 
many he had had ! But, unfortunately, the greater 
number turned out badly. Several became min- 


4 


Conscience. 


isters ; others accepted high government positions 
for life ; some handled millions of francs ; two 
were at Noumea ; one preached in the pulpit of 
Notre Dame. 

One afternoon in October the little parlor was 
full ; the end of the summer vacation had brought 
back the habitues , and for the first time the number 
was nearly large enough to open a profitable dis- 
cussion. Crozat, near the door, smiled at the ar- 
rivals on shaking hands, and Brigard, his soft felt 
hat on his head, presided, assisted by his two favor- 
ite disciples of the moment, the advocate Nou- 
garede and the poet Glady, neither of whom would 
turn out badly, he was certain. 

To tell the truth, for those who knew how to 
look and to see, the pale face of Nougarede, his 
thin lips, restless eyes, and an austerity of dress and 
manners which clashed with his twenty- six years, 
gave him more the appearance of a man of ambi- 
tion than of an apostle. And when one knew that 
Glady was the owner of a beautiful house in Paris, 
and of real estate in the country that brought 
him a hundred thousand francs a year, it was diffi- 
cult to imagine that he would long follow Father 
Brigard. 

But to see was not the dominant faculty of Bri- 
gard ; it was to reason, and reason told him that 
ambition would soon make Nougarede a deputy, as 
fortune would one day make Glady an academician; 
and in that case, although he detested assemblies as 


Conscience, 


5 


much as academies, they would have two tribunes 
from whence the good word would fall on the mul- 
titude with more weight. They might be counted 
on. When Nougarede began to come to the 
Wednesday reunions he was as empty as a drum, 
and if he spolie brilliantly on no matter what sub- 
ject with an imperturbable eloquence, it was to say 
nothing. In Glady’s first volume were words 
learnedly arranged to please the ears and the eyes. 
Now, ideas sustained the discourse of the advocate, 
as the verses of the poet said something — and these 
ideas were Brigard’s ; this something was the per- 
fume of his teaching. 

For half an hour the pipes burned fiercely, the 
smoke slowly rose to the ceiling, and as in a cloud 
Brigard might be seen like a bearded god, proclaim- 
ing his law, his hat on his head; for, if he had made 
a rule never to take it off, he manipulated it con- 
tinually while he spoke, frequently pushing it for- 
ward, sometimes to the back of his head, to the 
right, to the left, raising it, and flattening it, accord- 
ing to the needs of his argument. 

It is incontestable,” he said, “ that we scatter 
our great force when we ought to concentrate it.” 

He pressed down his hat. 

In effect,” he raised it, “ the hour has arrived 
for us to assert ourselves as a group, and it is a 
duty for us, since it is a need of humanity ” 

At this moment a new arrival glided into the 
room quietly, with the manifest intention of disturb- 


6 


Conscmice. 


ing no one ; but Crozat, who was seated near the 
door, stopped him and shook hands. 

TienSy Saniel ! Good-day, doctor.” 

‘‘ Good-evening, my dear sir.” 

“ Come to the table ; the beer is good to-day. ” 

“ Thank you ; I am very well here.” 

Without taking the chair that Crozat designated, 
he leaned against the wall. He was a tall, solid 
man about thirty, with tawny hair falling on the 
collar of his coat, a long, curled beard, a face ener- 
getic, but troubled and wan, to which the pale blue 
eyes gave an expression of hardness that was ac- 
centuated by a prominent jaw and a decided air. 
A Gaul, a true Gaul of ancient times, strong, bold, 
and resolute. 

Brigard continued : 

“It is incontestable,” — this was his formula, 
because everything he said was incontestable to 
him simply because he said it — “ it is incontestable 
that in the struggle for existence the dogma of 
conscience, must be established, its only sanction 
being the performance of duty and inward satisfac- 
tion ” 

“ Duty accomplished toward whom ? ” interrupted 
Saniel. 

“Toward one’s self.” 

“ Then begin by stating what are our duties, and 
codify what is good and what is bad.” 

“ That is easy,” some one replied. 

“ Easy if you admit a certain innate regard for 


Conscience. 


7 


human life, for property, and for the family. But 
you must acknowledge that all men have not this 
regard. How many believe that it is not a fault to 
run away with the wife of a friend, not a crime to 
appropriate something that they want, or to kill an 
enemy ! Where are the duties of those who reason 
and feel in this way ? What is their inward satisfac- 
tion worth ? This is why I will not admit that con- 
science is the proper guide of our actions.” 

There were several exclamations at this, which 
Brigard checked. 

“ What guide, then, shall men obey ? ” he de- 
manded. 

“ Force, which is the last word of the philosophy 
of life ” 

That which leads to a wise and progressive 
extermination. Is this what you desire ? ” 

‘‘ Why not ? I do not shrink from an extermina- 
tion that relieves humanity of idlers that it drags 
about without power to advance or to free itself, 
finally sinking under the load. Is it not better for 
the world to be rid of such people, who obstruct the 
advancement of others ? ” 

At least the idea is bizarre coming from a doc- 
tor,” interrupted Crozat, “since it would put an end 
to hospitals.” 

“ Not at all ; I would preserve them for the study 
of monsters.” 

“ In placing society on this antagonistic footing,” 
said Brigard, “ you destroy society itself, which is 


8 


Conscience. 


founded on reciprocity, on good fellowship ; and in 
doing so you create for the strong a state of sus- 
picion that paralyzes them. Carthage and Venice 
practised the selection by force, and destroyed 
themselves.” 

‘‘You speak of force, my dear Saniel,” interrupted 
a voice ; “ where do you get that — the force of 
things, the fatum I There is no beginning, no will ; 
events decide for us climate, temperament, environ- 
ment.” 

“ Then,” replied Saniel, “ there is no responsi- 
bility, and this instrument conscience, that should 
decide everything, is good for nothing. Without 
considering that the consequences of events which 
success or defeat may yet violate, for the accom- 
plishment of an act that you have believed condem- 
nable may serve the race, while another that you 
have believed beneficent may prove injurious ; from 
which it follows that intentions only should be 
judged, and there is no one but God who can sound 
human hearts to their depths.” 

He began to laugh : 

“ Do you believe that ? Is that the conclusion at 
which you have arrived ? ” 

A waiter entered carrying pitchers of beer on a 
tray, and the discussion was necessarily interrupted, 
everyone drawing up to the table where Crozat filled 
the glasses, and the conversation took a more private 
turn. 

Saniel shook hands with Brigard, who received 


Conscience. 


9 


him somewhat coldly ; then he approached Glady 
with the manifest intention of detaining him, but 
Glady had said that he was obliged to leave, so 
Saniel said that he could remain no longer, and had 
only dropped in on passing. 

When they were both gone Brigard turned to 
Crozat and Nougarede, who were near him, and de- 
clared that Saniel made him uneasy. 

“ He believes himself stronger than life,” he said, 
because he is sound and intelligent. He must 
take care that he does not go too far ! ” 




II. 

When Saniel and Glady reached the street, the 
rain that had fallen since morning had ceased, and 
the asphalt shone clear and glittering like a mirror. 

“The walking is good,” Saniel remarked. 

“ It will rain again,” responded Glady, looking at 
the sky. 

“ I think not.” 

It was evident that Glady wished to take a cab, 
but as none passed he was obliged to walk with 
Saniel. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ that you have 
wounded Brigard ? ” 

“ I regret it sincerely ; but the saloon of our friend 
Crozat is not yet a church, and I do not suppose 
that discussion is forbidden there.” 

“To deny is not to discuss.” 

“ You say that as if you were angry with me.” 

“ Not at all. I am sorry that you have wounded 
Brigard — nothing more.” 

“ That is too much, because I have a sincere es- 
teem, a real friendship for you, if you will permit 
me to say so.” 

But Glady, apparently, did not desire the conver- 
sation to take this turn. 


Conscience. 


1 1 


“I think this is an empty cab,” he said, as a fiacre 
approached them. 

“ No,” replied Saniel, “ I see the light of a cigar 
through the window-pane.” 

Glady made a slight gesture of impatience that 
was not lost upon Saniel, who was expecting some 
such demonstration. 

Rich, and frequenting the society of poor men, 
Glady lived in dread of borrowers. It was enough 
for any man to appear to wish to talk to him pri- 
vately to make him believe that he was going to ask 
for fifty louis or twenty francs ; so much was this 
the case that every friend or comrade was an enemy 
against whom he must defend his purse. And so 
he lay in wait as if expecting some one to spring 
upon him, his eyes open, his ears listening, and his 
hands in his pockets. This explains his attitude 
towards Saniel, in whom he scented a demand for 
money, and was the reason for his attempt to escape 
by taking a cab. But luck was against him, and he 
tried to decline the unspoken request in another 
way. 

“ Do not be surprised,” he said with the volubility 
with which a man speaks when he does not wish to 
give his companion a chance to say a word, that I 
was pained to see Brigard take seriously an argu- 
ment that evidently was not directed against him.” 

Neither against him nor against his ideas.” 

“ I know that ; you do not need to defend your- 
self. But I have so much friendship, so much 


12 


Conscience. 


esteem and respect for Brigard that everything that 
touches him affects me. And how could it be other- 
wise when one knows his value, and what a man he 
is ? This life of mediocrity that he lives, in order 
to be free, is it not admirable ? What a beautiful 
example ! ” 

“ Every one cannot follow it.” 

‘‘You think that one cannot be contented with 
ten francs a day ? ” 

“ I mean that every one has not the chance to 
make ten francs a day.” 

The vague fears of Glady became definite at 
these words. They had walked down the Rue 
Ferou and reached the Place St. Sulpice. 

“ I think that at last I am going to find a cab,” 
he said precipitately. 

But this hope was not realized ; there was not a 
single cab at the station, and he was forced to sub- 
mit to the assault from Saniel. 

And Saniel began : 

“ You are compelled to walk with me, and, 
frankly, I rejoice, because I wish to talk to you of a 
serious affair — on which depends my future.” 

“ This is a poor place for serious talk.” 

“ I do not find it so.” 

“ We would better appoint some other time.” 

“Why should we, since chance has thrown us 
together here ? ” 

Glady resigned himself to the inevitable, and was 
as polite as he could be in the circumstances. 


Conscience. 


13 


“ I await your pleasure,” he said in a gracious 
tone that was a contrast to his former one. 

Saniel, who was in such a hurry a few moments 
before, now silently walked by Glady, whose eyes 
were on the shining asphalt pavement. 

At last he spoke. 

“ I have told you that my future depends on the 
affair concerning which I wish to speak to you. I 
can tell you all in a few words : If I am not able 
to procure three thousand francs within two days, 
I shall be obliged to leave Paris, to give up my 
studies and my work here, and go and bury myself 
in my native town and become a plain country 
doctor. ” 

Glady did not flinch ; if he had not foreseen the 
amount he expected the demand, and he continued 
gazing at his feet. 

“You know,” continued Saniel, “that I am the 
son of peasants ; my father was marshal in a poor 
village of Auvergne. At school I gave proof of a 
certain aptitude for work above my comrades, and 
our curi conceived an affection for me and taught 
me all he knew. Then he made me enter a small 
seminary. But I had neither the docile mind nor 
the submissive character that was necessary for this 
education, and after several years of pranks and 
punishments, although I was not expelled, I was 
given to understand that my departure would be 
hailed with delight. I then became usher in a 
small school, but without salary, taking board and 


H 


Conscience. 


lodging as payment. I passed a good examination 
and was preparing for my degree, when I left the 
school owing to a quarrel. I had made some 
money by giving private lessons, and I found myself 
the possessor of nearly eighty francs. I started for 
Paris, where I arrived at five o’clock one morning 
in June ; and where I knew no one. I had a small 
trunk containing a few shirts, which obliged me to 
take a carriage. I told the coachman to take me to 
a hotel in the Latin Quarter. ‘ Which hotel ? ’ he 
asked ; ‘I do not care,’ I answered. ‘ Do you wish 
to go to the Hotel du Senat ? ’ The name pleased 
me ; perhaps it is an omen. He took me to the 
Hotel du Senat, where, with what I had left of my 
eighty francs, I paid a month in advance. I stayed 
there eight years.” 

That is remarkable.” 

What else could I do ? I knew Latin and 
Greek as well as any man in France, but as far as 
anything else was concerned I was as ignorant as a 
schoolmaster. The same day I tried to make use 
of what I knew, and I went to a publisher of 
classic books, of whom I had heard my professor of 
Greek literature speak. After questioning me he 
gave me a copy of Pindar to prepare with Latin 
notes, and advanced me thirty francs, which lasted 
me a month. I came to Paris with the desire to 
work, but without having made up my mind what 
to do. I went wherever there were lectures, to the 
Sorbonne, to the College de France, to the Law 


t 

♦ 

\ 

I 



* 



Co7iscience. 


15 


School, and to the School of Medicine ; but it was a 
month before I came to a decision. The subtleties 
of law displeased me, but the study of medicine, 
depending upon the observation of facts, attracted 
me, and I decided to become a doctor.” 

A marriage of reason.” 

No, a marriage for love. Because, if I had 
consulted reason, it would have told me that to 
marry medicine when one has nothing — neither 
family to sustain you nor relations to push you — 
would be to condemn yourself to a life of trials, of 
battles and of misery. My student life was happy ; 
I worked hard, and by giving lessons in Latin I had 
enough to eat. When I received as house-surgeon 
six, eight, nine hundred francs, I thought it a large 
fortune, and I would have remained in this position 
for the rest of my life if I had been able to do so, 
but when I took my degree of doctor I was obliged 
to leave the hospital. The possessor of several 
thousand francs, I should have followed rigorously 
my dream of ambition. While attending the mis- 
tress of one of my comrades I made the acquaint- 
ance of an upholsterer, who suggested that he 
should furnish an apartment for me, and that I 
might pay him later. I yielded to temptation. 
Remember, I had passed eight years in the Hotel 
du Senat, and I knew nothing of Paris life. A 
home of my own ! My own furniture, and a servant 
in my ante-room ! I should be somebody ! My 
upholsterer could have installed me in his own 


i6 


Conscience. 


quarter of Paris, and perhaps could have obtained 
some patients for me among his customers, who are 
rich and fashionable. But he did not do this, 
probably concluding that with my awkward appear- 
ance I would not be a success with such people. 
When you are successful it is original to be a 
peasant — people find you clever ; but before success 
comes to you it is a disgrace. He furnished me an 
apartment in a very respectable house in the Rue 
Louis-le-Grand. When I went into it I had debts 
to the amount of ten thousand francs behind me, 
the interest on this sum, the rent of two thousand 
four hundred francs, not a sou in my pocket, not a 

relation ’’ 

“ That was courageous.” 

I did not know that in Paris everything is ac- 
complished through influence, and I imagined that 
an intelligent man could make his way without assist- 
ance. I was to learn by experience. When a new 
doctor arrives anywhere his brother doctors do not 
receive him with much sympathy. ‘ What does this 
intruder want ? ’ ‘ Are there not enough of us al- 

ready ? ' He is watched, and the first patient that 
he loses is made use of as an example of his igno- 
rance or imprudence, and his position becomes un- 
comfortable. The druggists of my quarter whom I 
called upon did not receive me very warmly ; they 
made me feel the distance that separates an honor- 
able merchant from a beggar, and I was given to 
understand that they could patronize me only on 


Conscience. 


17 


condition that I ordered the specialties that they 
wished to profit by — iron from this one and tar from 
that. On commencing to practice I had as patients 
only the people of the quarter whose principle was 
never to pay a doctor, and who wait for the arrival 
of a new one in order that they may be rid of the 
old one — and this sort is numerous everywhere. It 
happened that my concierge was from Auvergne 
like myself, and he considered it his duty to make 
me give free attendance to all those from our country 
that he could find in the quarter and everywhere 
else, so that I had the patriotic satisfaction of seeing 
all the charcoal dealers from Auvergne sprawling in 
my beautiful armchairs. Finally, by remaining re- 
ligiously at home every Sunday in summer, while 
the other doctors were away ; by rising quickly at 
night every time my bell rang, I was able to acquire 
a practice among a class of people who were more 
reasonable and satisfactory. I obtained a prize at 
the Academy. At the same time I delivered, at a 
moderate price, lectures in anatomy at schools on 
the outskirts of the city ; I gave lessons ; I under- 
took all the anonymous work of the book trade and 
of journalism that I could find. I slept five hours a 
day, and in four years I had decreased my debt 
seven thousand francs. If my upholsterer wished 
to be paid I could have arranged it, but that was 
not his intention. He wishes to take his furniture 
that is not worn out, and to keep the money that he 
has received. If I do not pay these three thousand 


2 


i8 


Conscience. 


francs in a few days I shall be turned into the street. 
To tell the truth, I shall soon have a thousand 
francs, but those who owe it to me are not in Paris, 
or will pay in January. Behold my situation ! I am 
desperate because there is no one to whom I can 
apply ; those whom I have asked for money have 
not listened to me ; I have told you that I have no 
relations, and neither have I ^ny friends — perhaps 
because I am not amiable. And then I thought of 
you. You know me. You know that people say I 
have a future before me. At the end of three 
months I shall be a doctor in the hospitals ; my 
competitors admit that I will not miss admission ; 
I have undertaken some experiments that will, 
perhaps, give me fame. Will you give me your 
hand ? ” 

Glady extended it towards him. “ I thank you 
for having applied to me ; it is a proof of confidence 
that touches me.” He pressed the hand that he had 
taken with some warmth. see that you have 
divined the sentiments of esteem with which you 
have inspired me.” 

Saniel drew a long breath. 

“ Unfortunately,” continued Glady, I cannot do 
what you desire without deviating from my usual 
line of conduct. When I started out in life I lent 
to all those who appealed to me, and when I did 
not lose my friends I lost my money. I then took an 
oath to refuse every one. It is an oath that I can- 
not break. What would my old friends say if they 


Conscience. 


19 


learned that I did for a young man what I have 
refused to do for them ? ” 

“ Who would know it ? ” 

My conscience.” 

They had reached the Quai Voltaire, where fiacres 
were stationed. 

“At last here are some cabs,” Glady said. “ Par- 
don me for leaving you, but I am in a hurry.” 




III. 

Glady entered the cab so quickly that Saniel 
remained staring at the sidewalk slightly dazed. It 
was only when the door closed that he understood. 

‘‘ His conscience ! ” he murmured. Behold them ! 
Tartufes ! ” 

After a moment of hesitation he continued his way 
and reached the bridge of Saints-Peres, but he walked 
with doubtful steps, like a man who does not know 
where he is going. Presently he stopped, and, lean- 
ing his arms on the parapet, watched the sombre, 
rapidly flowing Seine, its small waves fringed with 
white foam. The rain had ceased, but the wind 
blew in squalls, roughening the surface of the river 
and making the red and green lights of the omnibus 
boats sway in the darkness. The passers-by came 
and went, and more than one examined him from 
the corner of the eye, wondering what this tall man 
was doing there, and if he intended to throw him- 
self into the water. 

And why not ? What better could he do ? 

And this was what Saniel said to himself while 
watching the flowing water. One plunge, and he 
would end the fierce battle in which he had so 
madly engaged for four years, and which would in 
the end drive him mad. 


Conscience. 


21 


It was not the first time that this idea of ending 
everything had tempted him, and he only warded 
it off by constantly inventing combinations which 
it seemed to him at the moment might save him. 
Why yield to such a temptation before trying every- 
thing ? And this was how he happened to appeal 
to Glady. But he knew him, and knew that his 
avarice, about which every one joked, had a certain 
reason for its existence. However, he said to him- 
self that if the landed proprietor obstinately refused 
a friendly loan, which would only pay the debts of 
youth, the poet would willingly fill the role of Prov- 
idence and save from shipwreck, without risking 
anything, a man with a future, who, later, would 
pay him back. It was with this hope that he risked 
a refusal. The landed proprietor replied ; the poet 
was silent. And now there was nothing to expect 
from any one. Glady was his last resort. 

In explaining his situation to Glady he lightened 
the misery instead of exaggerating it. For it was 
not only his upholsterer that he owed, but also his 
tailor, his bootmaker, his coal dealer, his concierge^ 
and all those with whom he had dealings. In 
reality, his creditors had not harassed him very 
much until lately, but this state of affairs would not 
last when they saw him prosecuted ; they also would 
sue him, and how could he defend himself ? How 
should he live ? His only resource would be to 
return to the Hotel du Senat, where even they would 
not leave him in peace, or to his native town and 


22 


Conscience. 


become a country doctor. In either case it was 
renouncing all his ambitions. Would it not be 
better to die ? 

What good was life if his dreams were not real- 
ized — if he had nothing that he wanted ? 

Like many who frequently come in contact with 
death, life in itself was a small thing to him — his own 
life as well as that of others ; with Hamlet he said : 
‘‘To die, to sleep, no more,” but without adding: 
“To die, to sleep, perchance to dream,” feeling cer- 
tain that the dead do not dream ; and what is bet- 
ter than sleep to those who have had a hard life ? 

He was absorbed in thought when something 
came between him and the flaring gas-light, and 
threw a shadow over him that made him straighten 
himself up. What was it ? Only a policeman, who 
came and leaned against the parapet near him. 

He understood. His attitude was that of a man 
who contemplates throwing himself into the river, 
and the policeman had placed himself there in order 
to prevent it. 

“ Thanks ! ” he said to the astonished man. 

He continued his way, walking quickly, but hear- 
ing distinctly the steps of the policeman following 
him, who evidently took him for a madman, who 
must be watched. 

When he left the bridge of Saints-Peres for the 
Place du Carrousel this surveillance ceased, and he 
could then indulge freely in reflection — at least as 
freely as his trouble and discouragement permitted. 


Conscience. 


n 


The weak kill themselves ; the strong fight to 
their last breath.” 

And, low as he was, he was not yet at his last 
breath. 

When he decided to appeal to Glady he had hes- 
itated between him and a usurer named Caffie, 
whom he did not know personally, but whom he 
had heard spoken of as a rascal who was interested 
in all sorts of affairs, preferring the bad to the good 
— of successions, marriages, interdictions, extortions; 
and if he had not been to him it was for fear of 
being refused, as much as from the dread of putting 
himself in such hands in case of meeting with com- 
pliance. But these scruples and these fears were 
useless now ; since Glady failed him, cost what it 
might and happen what would, he must go to this 
scamp for assistance. 

He knew that Caffie lived in the Rue Sainte- 
Anne, but he did not know the number. He had 
only to go to one of his patients, a wine merchant in 
the Rue Therese, to find his address in the directory. 
It was but a step, and he decided to run the risk ; 
there was need of haste. Discouraged by all the 
applications that he had made up to this time, dis- 
heartened by betrayed hopes, irritated by rebuffs, 
he did not deceive himself as to the chances of this 
last attempt, but at least he would try it, slight 
though the hope might be of success. 

It was an old house where Caffie lived, and had 
been formerly a private hotel ; it was composed 


24 


Conscience. 


of two wings, one on the street, the other on an 
inside court. A porte cochire gave access to this 
court, and under its roof, near the staircase, was 
the concierge's lodge. Saniel knocked at the door 
in vain ; it was locked and would not open. He 
waited several minutes, and in his nervous impa- 
tience walked restlessly up and down the court. 
At last an old womdn appeared carrying a small 
wax taper. She was feeble and bent, and began to 
excuse herself ; she was alone and could not be 
everywhere at the same time, in her lodge and light- 
ing the lamps on the stairways. Caffie lived on the 
first floor, in the wing on the street. 

Saniel mounted the stairs and rang the bell. A 
long time passed, or at least it seemed long to him, 
before there was an answer. At last he heard a 
slow and heavy step on the tiled floor and the door 
was opened, but held by a hand and a foot. 

“ What do you wish ? ” 

“ Monsieur Caffie.” 

“ I am he. Who are you ? ” 

‘‘ Doctor Saniel.” 

“ I have not sent for a doctor.” 

“ It is not as doctor that I am here, but as 
client.” 

“This is not the hour when I receive clients.” 

“ But you are at home.” 

“ That is a fact ! ” 

And Caffie, concluding to open the door, asked 
Saniel to enter, and then closed it. 


Conscience. 


25 


“ Come into my office.” 

They were in a small room filled with papers that 
had only an old desk and three chairs for furniture ; 
it communicated with the office of the business man, 
which was larger, but furnished with the same sim- 
plicity and strewn with scraps of paper that had a 
mouldy smell. 

‘‘ My clerk is ill just now,” Caffie said, “ and 
when I am alone I do not like to open the door.” 

After giving this excuse he offered Saniel a chair, 
and, seating himself before his desk, lighted by a 
lamp from which he had taken the shade, he said : 

“ Doctor, I am ready to listen to you.” 

He replaced the shade on the lamp. 

Saniel made his request concisely, without the de- 
tails that he had entered into with Glady. He 
owed three thousand francs to the upholsterer who 
had furnished his apartment, and as he could not 
pay immediately he was in danger of being prose- 
cuted. 

Who is the upholsterer ? ” Caffi6 asked, while 
holding his left jaw with his right hand. 

“Jardine, Boulevard Haussmann.” 

I know him. It is his trade to take back his 
furniture in this way, after three-quarters of the 
sum has been paid, and he has become rich at it. 
How much money have you already paid of this ten 
thousand francs ? ” 

“ Including the interest and what I have paid in 
instalments, nearly twelve thousand francs.” 


26 


Conscience. 


And you still owe three thousand ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

That is nice.” 

Caffie seemed full of admiration for this manner 
of proceeding. 

“ What guarantee have you to offer for this loan 
of three thousand francs ? ” 

“No other than my present position, I confess, 
and above all my future.” 

At Caffie’s request he explained his plans and 
prospects for the future, while the business man, 
with his cheek resting on his hand, listened, and 
from time to time breathed a stifled sigh, a sort of 
groan. 

“ Hum ! hum ! ” he said when Saniel finished his 
explanation. “ You know, my dear friend, you 
know : 

‘ ‘ Ma foi, sur I’avenir bien fou qui se fira : 

Tel qui rit vendredi, dimanche pleurera.’’ 

It is Sunday with you, my dear sir.” 

“ But I am not at the end of my life nor at the 
end of my energy, and I assure you that my energy 
makes me capable of many things.” 

“ I do not doubt it ; I know what energy can do. 
Tell a Greek who is dying of hunger to go to heaven 
and he will go : 

Graeculus esuriens ni coelum, jusseris, ibit.” 

But I do not see that you have started for heaven.” 

A smile of derision, accompanied by a grimace. 


Conscience. 


27 


crossed Caffi^’s face. Before becoming the usurer 
of the Rue Sainte-Anne, whom every one called a 
rascal, he had been attorney in the country, deputy 
judge, and if unmerited evils had obliged him to 
resign and to hide the unpleasant circumstances in 
Paris, he never lost an opportunity to prove that by 
education he was far above his present position. 
Finding this new client a man of learning, he was 
glad to make quotations that he thought would 
make him worthy of consideration. 

“ It is, perhaps, because I am not Greek,” Saniel 
replied ; “ but I am an Auvergnat, and the men of my 
country have great physical strength.” 

Caffie shook his head. 

“ My dear sir,” he said, “ I might as well tell you 
frankly that I do not believe the thing can be done. 
I would do it myself willingly, because I read in- 
telligence in your face, and resolution in your whole 
person, which inspire me with confidence in you ; 
but I have no money to put into such speculations. 
I can only be, as usual, a go-between — that is to say, 
I can propose the loan to one of my clients, but I 
do not know one who would be contented with the 
guarantee of a future that is more or less uncertain. 
There are so many doctors in Paris who are in your 
position.” 

Saniel rose. 

‘‘Are you going ? ” cried Caffie. 

“ But ” 

“ Sit down, my dear sir ! It is no use to throw 


28 


Conscience. 


the handle after the axe. You make me a proposi- 
tion, and I show you the difficulties in the way, but 
I do not say there is no way to extricate you from 
embarrassment. I must look around. I have known 
you only a few minutes; but it does not take long to 
appreciate a man like you, and, frankly, you inspire 
me with great interest.” 

What did he wish ? Saniel was not simple 
enough to be caught by words, nor was he a fop 
who accepts with gaping mouth all the compliments 
addressed to him. Why did he inspire a sudden in- 
terest in this man who had the reputation of push- 
ing business matters to extremes ? He would find 
out. In the mean time he would be on his guard. 

“ I thank you for your sympathy,” he said. 

“I shall prove to you that it is real, and that it 
may become useful. You come to me because you 
want three thousand francs. I hope I may find 
them for you, and I promise to try, though it will be 
difficult, very difficult. They will make you secure 
for the present. But will they assure your future } 
that is, will they permit you to continue the impor- 
tant works of which you have spoken to me, and on 
which your future depends ? No. Your struggles 
will soon begin again. And you must shake your- 
self clear from such cares in order to secure for 
yourself the liberty that is indispensable if you wish 
to advance rapidly. And to obtain this freedom 
from cares and this liberty, I see only one way — you 
must marry.” 



IV. 

Saniel, who was on his guard and expected some 
sort of roguery from this man, had not foreseen that 
these expressions of interest were leading up to a 
proposal of marriage, and an exclamation of surprise 
escaped him. But it was lost in the sound of the 
door-bell, which rang at that moment. 

Cafiie rose. 

“ How disagreeable it is not to have a clerk ! ” he 
said. 

He went to open the door with an eagerness that 
he had not shown to Saniel, which proved that he 
had not the same fear of admitting people when he 
was not alone. 

It was a clerk from the bank. 

“ You will permit me,” Caffie said on returning to 
his office and addressing Saniel. It will take but 
an instant.” 

The clerk took a paper from his portfolio and 
handed it to Caffie. 

Caffi6 drew a key from the pocket of his vest, with 
which he opened the iron safe placed behind his 
desk, and turning his back to Saniel and the clerk 
counted the bills which they heard rustle in his 
hands. Presently he rose, and closing the door of 


30 


Conscience. 


the safe he placed under the lamp the package of 
bills that he had counted. The clerk then counted 
them, and placing them in his portfolio took his 
leave. 

“ Close the door when you go out,” Caffie said, 
who was already seated in his arm-chair. 

‘‘ Do not be afraid.” 

When the clerk was gone Caffie apologized for 
the interruption. 

“ Let us continue our conversation, my dear sir. 
I told you that there is only one way to relieve you 
permanently from embarrassment, and that way you 
will find is in a good marriage, that will place hie et 
nunc a reasonable sum at your disposal.” 

“ But it would be folly for me to marry now, when 
I have no position to offer to a wife.” 

“ And your future, of which you have just spoken 
with so much assurance, have you no faith in 
that ? ” 

“An absolute faith — as firm to-day as when I first 
began the battle of life, only brighter. However, 
as others have not the same reasons that I have to 
hope and believe what I hope and believe, it is 
quite natural that they should feel doubts of my 
future. You felt it yourself instantly in not finding 
it a good guarantee for the small loan of three 
thousand francs.” 

“ A loan and marriage are not the same thing. A 
loan relieves you temporarily, and leaves you in a 
state to contract several others successively, which, 


Conscience. 


31 


you must acknowledge, weakens the guarantee that 
you offer. While a marriage instantly opens to you 
the road that your ambition wishes to travel.” 

‘‘ I have never thought of marriage.” 

“ If you should think of it ? ” 

“ There must be a woman first of all.” 

“ If I should propose one, what would you say ? ” 
But ” 

“You are surprised ?” 

“ I confess that I am.” 

“ My dear sir, I am the friend of my clients, and 
for many of them — I dare to say it — a father. 
And having much affection for a young woman, 
and for the daughter of one of my friends, while 
listening to you I thought that one or the other 
might be the woman you need. Both have fortunes, 
and both possess physical attractions that a hand- 
some man like yourself has a right to demand. 
And for the rest, I have their photographs, and you 
may see for yourself what they are.” 

He opened a drawer in his desk, and took from it 
a package of photographs. As he turned them over 
Saniel saw that they were all portraits of women. 
Presently he selected two and handed them to 
Saniel. 

One represented a woman of from thirty-eight to 
forty years, corpulent, robust, covered with horrible 
cheap jewelry that she had evidently put on for the 
purpose of being photographed. The other was a 
young girl of about twenty years, pretty, simply and 


32 


Conscience. 


elegantly dressed, whose distinguished and reserved 
physiognomy was a strong contrast to the first por- 
trait. 

While Saniel looked at these pictures Caffie 
studied him, trying to discover the effect they 
produced. 

“Now that you have seen them,” he said, “let 
us talk of them a little. If yoii knew me better, my 
dear sir, you would know that I am frankness itself, 
and in business my principle is to tell everything, 
the good and the bad, so that my clients are re- 
sponsible for the decisions they make. In reality, 
there is nothing bad about these two persons, 
because, if there were, I would not propose them to 
you. But there are certain things that my delicacy 
compels me to point out to you, which I do frankly^ 
feeling certain that a man like you is not the slave 
of narrow prejudices.” 

An expression of pain passed over his face, and 
he clasped his jaw with both hands. 

“You suffer ? ” Saniel asked. 

“Yes, from my teeth, cruelly. Pardon me that I 
show it ; I know by myself that nothing is more 
annoying than the sight of the sufferings of others.” 

“At least not to doctors.” 

“ Never mind ; we will return to my clients. This 
one” — and he touched the portrait of the be- 
jewelled woman — “ is, as you have divined already, 
a widow, a very amiable widow. Perhaps she is a 
little older than you are, but that is nothing. Your 


Conscience, 


33 


experience must have taught you that the man who 
wishes to be loved, tenderly loved, pampered, ca- 
ressed, spoiled, should marry a woman older than 
himself, who will treat him as a husband and as a 
son. Her first husband was a careful merchant, 
who, had he lived, would have made a large fortune 
in the butcher business ” — he mumbled this word 
instead of pronouncing it clearly — ‘‘ but although 
he died just at the time when his affairs were begin- 
ning to develop, he left twenty thousand pounds 
income to his wife. As I have told you what is 
good, I must tell you what is to be regretted. 
Carried away by gay companions, this intelligent 
man became addicted to intemperance, and from 
drinking at saloons he soon took to drinking at 
home, and his wife drank with him. I have every 
reason to believe that she has reformed ; but, if it 
is otherwise, you, a doctor, can easily cure her ” 

“ You believe it ? ” 

“Without doubt. However, if it is impossible, 
you need only let her alone, and her vice will soon 
carry her off ; and, as the contract will be made 
according to my wishes in view of such an event, 
you will find yourself invested with a fortune and 
unencumbered with a wife.” 

“ And the other ? ” Saniel said, who had listened 
silently to this curious explanation of the situation 
that Caffie made with the most perfect good nature. 
So grave were the circumstances that he could not 
help being amused at this diplomacy. 

3 


34 


Conscience. 


“ I expected your demand,” replied the agent 
with a shrewd smile. “ And if I spoke of this ami- 
able widow it was rather to acquit my conscience 
than with any hope of succeeding. However free 
from prejudices one may be, one always retains a 
few. I understand yours, and more than that, I 
share them. Happily, what I am now about to tell 
you is something quite different. Take her photo- 
graph, my dear sir, and look at it while I talk. A 
charming face, is it not ? She has been finely 
educated at a fashionable convent. In a word, a 
pearl, that you shall wear. And now I must tell 
you the flaw, for there is one. Who is blameless ? 
The daughter of one of our leading actresses, after 
leaving the convent she returned to live with her 
mother. It was there, in this environment — ahem ! 
ahem ! — that an accident happened to her. To be 
brief, she has a sweet little child that the father would 
have recognized assuredly, had he not been already 
married. But at least he has provided for its future 
by a donation of two hundred thousand francs, in 
such a way that, whoever marries the mother and 
legitimizes the child will enjoy the interest of this 
sum until the child’s majority. If that ever arrives 
— these little creatures are so fragile ! You being 
a physician, you know more about that than any 
one. In case of an accident the father will inherit 
half the money from his son ; and if it seems cruel 
for an own father to inherit from his own son, it is 
quite a different thing when it is a stranger who 


Co7iscience. 


35 


receives the fortune. This is all, my dear sir, 
plainly and frankly, and I will not do you the injury 
to suppose that you do not see the advantages of 
what I have said to you without need of my insist- 
ing further. If I have not explained clearly ” 

“But nothing is more clear.” 

“ — it is the fault of this pain that paralyzes me.” 

And he groaned while holding his jaw. 

“ You have a troublesome tooth ? ” Saniel said, 
with the tone of a physician who questions a 
patient. 

“ All my teeth trouble me. To tell the truth, 
they are all going to pieces.” 

“ Have you consulted a doctor ? ” 

“ Neither a doctor nor a dentist. * I have faith in 
medicine, of course ; but when I consult doctors, 
which seldom happens, I notice that they think 
much more of their own affairs than of what I am 
saying, and that keeps me away from them. But, 
my dear sir, when a client consults me, I put my- 
self in his place.” 

While he spoke, Saniel examined him, which he 
had not done until this moment, and he saw the 
characteristic signs of rapid consumption. His 
clothes hung on him as if made for a man twice his 
size, and his face was red and shining, as if he were 
covered with a coating of cherry jelly. 

“ Will you show me your teeth ? ” he asked. “ It 
may be possible to relieve your sufferings.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 


56 


Conscience. 


The examination did not last long. 

“ Your mouth is often dry, is it not ? ” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ You are often thirsty ? ” 

“ Always.” 

“ Do you sleep well ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Your sight troubles you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Have you a good appetite ? ” 

“Yes, I eat heartily; and the'more I eat the thin- 
ner I become. I am turning into a skeleton.” 

“ I see that you have scars from boils on the back 
of your neck.” 

“ They made me suffer enough, the rascals ; but 
they are gone as they came. Hang it, one is no 
longer young at seventy-two years ; one has small 
vexations. They are small vexations, are they 
not ? ” 

“Certainly. With some precautions and a diet 
that I shall prescribe, if you wish, you will soon be 
better. I will give you a prescription that will 
relieve your toothache.” 

“We will talk of this again, because we shall 
have occasion to meet if, as I presume, you appre- 
ciate the advantages of the proposition that I have 
made you.” 

“ I must have time to reflect.” 

“ Nothing is more reasonable. There is no 
hurry.” 


Conscie7ice. 


37 


“ But I am in a hurry ; because, if I do not pay 
Jardine, I shall find myself in the street, which 
would not be a position to offer to a wife.” 

“ In the street ? Oh, things will not come to 
such a pass as that ! What are the prosecutions ? ” 

“They will soon begin; Jardine has already 
threatened me.” 

“ They are going to begin ? Then they have not 
begun. If he does, as we presume he will, pro- 
ceed by a saisie-revendication^ we shall have time 
before the judgment. Do you owe anything to 
your landlord ? ” 

“The lease expired on the fifteenth.” 

“ Do not pay it.” 

“That is easy ; it is the only thing that is easy for 
me to do.” 

“ It is an obstacle in the way of your Jardine, and 
may stop him a moment. We can manage this way 
more easily. The important thing is to warn me as 
soon as the fire begins. Au revoir, my dear sir.” 




V. 

Although Saniel had had no experience in busi- 
ness, he was not simple enough not to know that in 
refusing him this loan Caffie meant to make use of 
him. 

“ It is very simple,” he said to himself, as he went 
down stairs. “ He undertakes to manage my affairs, 
and in such a way that some fine day, not far off, I 
shall have to save myself by marrying that charming 
young girl. What a scoundrel ! ” 

However, the situation was such that he was glad 
to avail himself of the assistance of this scoundrel. 
At least, some time was gained, and when Jardine 
found that he was not a lamb who was disposed to 
let himself be slaughtered, he might accept a rea- 
sonable arrangement. But he must manage in such a 
way that Caffie would not prevent this arrangement. 

Unfortunately, he felt himself hardly capable of 
such manoeuvring, having been always straightfor- 
ward, his eyes fixed on the end he wished to attain, 
and thinking only of the work through which he 
would attain it. And now he must act the part of 
a diplomat, submitting to craftiness and rogueries 
that were not at all in accord with his open nature. 


Conscience. 


39 


He had begun by not telling Caffi^, instantly, what 
he thought of his propositions ; but it is more diffi- 
cult to act than to control one’s self, to speak than 
to be silent. 

What would he say, what would he do, when the 
time for action came ? 

He reached his house without having decided 
anything, and as he passed before the concierge's 
lodge absorbed in thought, he heard some one call 
him. 

“ Doctor, come in a moment, I beg of you.” 

He thought some one wished to consult him, 
some countryman who had waited for his return ; 
and, although he did not feel like listening patiently 
to idle complainings, he turned back and entered 
the lodge. 

“ Some one brought this,” the concierge said, 
handing him a paper that was stamped and covered 
with a running handwriting. “ This ” was the be- 
ginning of the fire of which Caffie had spoken. 
Without reading it, Saniel put it in his pocket and 
turned to go ; but the concierge detained him. 

‘‘ I would like to say two words to 7nonchieur le 
docteur about this paper.” 

“ Have you read it ? ” 

“ No, but I talked with the officer who gave it to 
me, and he told me what it meant. It is unfortu- 
nate, doctor.” 

To be pitied by his concierge! This was too 
much. 


40 


Conscience. 


“ It is not as he told you,” he replied haughtily. 

“ So much the better. I am glad for you and 
for me. You can pay my little bill.” 

“ Give it to me.” 

‘‘ I have given it to you twice already, but I have 
a copy. Here it is.” 

To be sued by a creditor paralyzed Saniel ; he 
was stunned, crushed, humiliated, and could only 
answer stupidly. Taking the bill that the concierge 
handed him, he put it in his pocket and stammered 
a few words. 

“ You see, doctor, I must say what has been in my 
heart a long time. You are my countryman, and 
I esteem you too much not to speak. In taking 
your apartment and engaging your upholsterer, you 
did too much. You ruin yourself. Give up your 
apartment, and take the one opposite that costs 
less than half, and you will get on. You will not be 
obliged to leave this quarter. What will become of 
our countrymen if you leave us ? You are a good 
doctor ; everybody knows it and says so. And now, 
as for my bill, it is understood that I shall be paid 
first, shall I not ? ” 

^‘As soon as I have the money I will pay you.” 

“ It is a promise ? ” 

“ I promise you.” 

Thank you very much. If it could be to-mor- 
row, it would suit me. I am not rich, you know, 
but I have always paid the gas-bill for your experi- 
ments.” 


Conscience. 


41 


With the paper in his pocket, Saniel returned to 
Caffi6, who was just going out, and to whom he gave it. 

“ I will see about it this evening,” said the man of 
business. “ Just now I am going to dinner. Do not 
worry. To-morrow I will do what is necessary. 
Good-evening. I am dying of hunger.” 

But three days before, Saniel emptied his purse to 
soothe his upholsterer by an instalment as large as 
he was able to make it, keeping only five francs for 
himself, and with the few sous left he could not go 
to a restaurant, not even the lowest and cheapest. 
He could only buy some bread for his supper, and 
eat it while working, as he had often done before. 

But when he returned to his rooms he was not in 
a state of mind to write an article that must be 
delivered that evening. Among other things that 
he had undertaken was one, and not the least fastidi- 
ous, which consisted in giving, by correspondence, 
advice to the subscribers of a fashion magazine, or, 
more exactly speaking, to recommend, in the form 
of medical advice, all the cosmetics, depilatories, 
elixirs, dyes, essences, oils, creams, soaps, pomades, 
tooth-powders, rouges ; and also all the druggists’ 
specialties, to which their inventors wished to give 
an authority that the public, which believed itself 
acute, refused to the simple advertisement on the 
last page. With his ambition, and the career before 
him, he would never have consented to carry on 
this correspondence under his own name. He did 
it for a neighboring doctor, a simple man, who was 


42 


Conscience. 


not so cautious, and who signed his name to these 
letters, glad to get clients from any quarter. For 
his trouble, Saniel took this doctor’s place during 
Sunday in summer, and from time to time received 
a box of perfumery or quack medicines, which he 
sold at a low price when occasion offered. 

Every week he was given the list of cosmetics and 
specialties that he must make use of in his corre- 
spondence, no matter how he recommended them, 
whether in answer to letters that were really ad- 
dressed to him, or by inventing questions that gave 
him the opportunity to introduce them. 

He began to consult this list and the pile of let- 
ters from subscribers that the magazine had sent 
him, when the door-bell rang. Perhaps it was a 
patient, the good patient whom he had expected for 
four years. He left his desk to open the door. 

It was his coal man, who came with his bill. 

“ I will stop some day when I am near you,” Saniel 
said. “ I am in a hurry this evening.” 

‘‘ And I am in a hurry, too ; I must pay a large 
bill to-morrow, and I count upon having some 
money from you.” 

I have no money here.” 

After a long talk he got rid of the man and 
returned to his desk. He had answered but a few 
of the many letters when his bell rang again. This 
time lie would not open the door ; it was a creditor, 
without doubt. And he continued his correspond- 
ence. 


Conscience. 


43 


But for four years he had waited for chance to 
draw him a good ticket in the lottery of life — a 
rich patient afflicted with a cyst or a tumor that he 
would take to a fashionable surgeon, who would 
divide with him the ten or fifteen thousand francs 
that he would receive for the operation. In that 
case he would be saved. 

He ran to the door. The patient with the cyst 
presented himself in the form of a small bearded 
man with a red face, wearing over his vest the wine 
merchant’s apron of coarse black cloth. In fact, it 
was the wine merchant from the corner, who, having 
heard of the offlcer’s visit, came to ask for the pay- 
ment of his bill for furnishing wine for three months. 

A scene similar to that which he had had with 
the coal merchant, but more violent, took place, and 
it was only by threatening to put him out of the 
door that Saniel got rid of the man, who went away 
declaring that he would come the next morning 
with an officer. 

Saniel returned to his work. 

His pen flew over the paper, when a noise made 
him raise his head. Either he had not closed the 
door tightly, or his servant was entering with his 
key. What did he want ? He did not employ him 
all day, but only during his office hours, to put his 
rooms in order and to open the door for his clients. 

As Saniel rose to go and see who it was, there 
was a knock at the door. It was his servant, with a 
blank and embarrassed air. 


44 


Conscience. 


“ What is the matter, Joseph ? ” • 

“ I thought I should find you, sir, so I came.’* 

“Why?” ^ 

Joseph hesitated ; then, taking courage, he said 
volubly, while lowering his eyes : 

“ I came to ask, sir, if you will pay me my month, 
which expired on the fifteenth, because there is need 
of money at my house ; if there was not need of 
money I would not have come. If you wish, sir, I 
will release you ” 

“ How ? ” 

“ I will take the coat that you made me order a 
month ago ; I am quite sure it is not worth what is 
due me, but it is always so. ” 

“ Take the coat.” 

Joseph took the coat from the wardrobe in the 
hall and rolled it in a newspaper. 

“ Of course you will not expect me in the morn- 
ing,” he said, as he put his key on the table. “ I 
must look out for another place.” 

“Very well, I shall not expect you.” 

‘‘ Good-evening, sir.” 

And Joseph hurried away as quickly as possible. 

Left alone, Saniel did not return to his work 
immediately, but throwing himself in an arm-chair 
he cast a melancholy glance around his office and 
through the open door into the parlor. In the faint 
light of fhe candle he saw the large arm-chairs 
methodically placed each side of the chimney, the 
curtains at the windows lost in shadow, and all 


Conscience. 


45 


the furniture which for four years had cost him so 
many efforts. He had long been the prisoner of 
this Louis XIV. camlet, and he was now going to be 
executed. A beautiful affair, truly, brilliant and 
able ! All this had been used only by the poor 
Auvergnats, without Saniel enjoying it at all, for he 
had neither the bourgeois taste for bibelots nor the 
desire for elegance. A movement of anger and 
revolt against himself made him strike his desk with 
his fist. What a fool he had been ! 

The bell rang again. This time, not expecting a 
rich patient, he would not open it. After a moment 
a slight tap was heard on the panel. He rose 
quickly and ran to open the door. 

A woman threw herself into his arms. 

“ O my dearest ! I am so glad to find you at 
home ! ” 




VI. 

She passed her arm about him and pressed him 
to her, and with arms entwined they entered the 
study. 

“ How glad I am ! ” she repeated. What a good 
idea it was of mine ! " 

With a quick movement she took off her long 
gray cloak that enveloped her from head to foot. 

“And are you glad?” she asked, as she stood 
looking at him. 

“ Can you ask that ? ” 

“ Only to hear you say that you are.” 

“ Are you not my only joy, the sweet lamp that 
gives me light at the bottom of the well where I 
work day and night ? ” 

“ Dear Victor!” 

She was a tall, slender young woman with chest- 
nut hair, whose thick curls clustering about her 
forehead almost touched her eyebrows. Her beau- 
tiful eyes were dark, her nose short, while her 
superb teeth and strawberry colored gums lent her 
the air of a pretty pet dog ; she had the gayety, the 
vivacity, the gracious effrontery, the passionate 
caressing glance. Dressed a la diable^ like the 


Conscience. 


47 


Parisian woman who has not a sou, but who adorns 
everything she wears, she had an ease, a freedom, a 
natural elegance that was charming. With this she 
had the voice of a child, a joyous laugh, and an 
expression of sensibility on her fresh face. 

‘‘ I have come to dine with you,” she said gayly, 
“and I am so hungry.” 

He made a gesture that was not lost upon her. 

“ Do I disturb you ? ” she asked uneasily. 

“ Not at all.” 

“ Must you go out ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Then why did you make a gesture that showed 
indifference, or, at least, embarassment ? ” 

“You are mistaken, my little Phillis.” 

“ With any one else I might be mistaken, but with 
you it is impossible. You know that between us 
words are not necessary ; that I read in your eyes 
what you would say, in your face what you think 
and feel. Is it not always so when one loves — as I 
love you ? ” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her long and 
tenderly. Then going to a chair on which he had 
thrown his coat, he drew from the pocket the bread 
that he had bought. 

“ This is my dinner,” he said, showing the bread. 

“ Oh ! I must scold you. Work is making you 
lose your head. Can you not take time to eat 1 ” 

He smiled sadly. 

“ It is not time that I want.” 


48 


Consciefice. 


He fumbled in his pocket and brought out three 
big sous. 

I cannot dine at a restaurant with six sous.” 

She threw herself in his arms. 

“ O dearest, forgive me ! ” she cried. “ Poor, dear 
martyr ! Dear, great man ! It is I who accuse you, 
when I ought to embrace your knees. And you do 
not scold me ; a sad smile is your only reply. And 
it is really so bad as that ! Nothing to eat ! ” 

Bread is very good eating. If I might be as- 
sured that I shall always have some ! ” 

“Well, to-day you shall have something more and 
better. This morning, seeing the storm, an idea 
came tome associated with you. It is quite natural, 
since you are always in my heart and in my 
thoughts. I told mamma that if the storm con- 
tinued I would dine at the pension. You can 
imagine with what joy I listened to the wind all 
day, and watched the rain and leaves falling, and 
the dead branches waving in the whirlwind. Thank 
God, the weather was bad enough for mamma to 
believe me safe at the pension ; and here I am. 
But \ve must not fast. I shall go and buy some- 
thing to eat, and we will play at making dinner by 
the fire, which will be far more amusing than going 
to a restaurant.” 

She put on her cloak quickly. 

“ Set the table while I make my purchases.” 

“ I have my article to finish that will be sent for 
at eight o’clock. Just think, I have three tonics to 


Conscience. 


49 


recommend, four preparations of iron, a dye, two 
capillary lotions, an opiate, and I don’t know how 
many soaps and powders. What a business ! ” 

“ Very well, then, do not trouble yourself about 
the table ; we will set it together when you have 
finished, and that will be much more amusing.” 

“You take everything in good part.” 

“ Is it better to look on the bad side ? I will soon 
return.” 

She went to the door. 

“ Do not be extravagant,” he said. 

“ There is no danger,” she replied, striking her 
pocket. 

Then, returning to him, she embraced him pas- 
sionately. 

“ Work.” 

And she ran out. 

They had loved each other for two years. At 
the time they met, Saniel was giving a course of 
lectures on anatomy at a young ladies’ school just 
outside of Paris, and every time he went out there 
he saw a young woman whom he could not help 
noticing. She came and went on the same trains 
that he did, and gave lessons in a rival school. As 
she frequently carried under her arm a large car- 
toon, and sometimes a plaster cast, he concluded 
that she gave lessons in drawing. At first he paid 
no attention to her. What was she to him ? He 
had more important things in his head than women. 
But little by little, and because she was reserved 
4 


50 


Conscience. 


and discreet, he was struck by the vivacity and 
gayety of her expression. He really enjoyed look- 
ing at this pretty and pleasing young woman. 
However, his looks said nothing ; if their eyes 
smiled when they met, that was all ; they did not 
make each other’s acquaintance. When they left 
the train they did not notice each other ; if he 
took the left side of the street, she took the other, 
and vice versa. This state of things lasted several 
months without a word having been exchanged 
between them; in due time they learned each other’s 
names and professions. She was a professor of 
drawing, as he supposed, the daughter of an artist 
who had been dead several years, and was called 
Mademoiselle Phillis Cormier. He was a physician 
for whom a brilliant future was prophesied, a man 
of power, who would some day be a famous one ; and, 
naturally, their attitude remained the same. There 
was no particular reason why it should change. But 
accident made a reason. One summer day, at the 
hour when they ordinarily took the train back to 
Paris, the sky suddenly became overcast, and it was 
evident that a violent storm was approaching. 
Saniel saw Phillis hurrying to the station without an 
umbrella, and, as some one had loaned him one, he 
decided to speak to her for the first time. 

It seems as if the storm would overtake us 
before we reach the station. As you have no 
umbrella, will you permit me to walk beside you, 
and to shelter you with mine ? ” 


u 



YOUR UMBRELLA IS BETTER THAN VIRGINIA’S SKIRT,” SHE SAID. 

“and what is Virginia’s skirt?” 


A 51 



V, 


Conscience. 


51 


She replied with a smile, and they walked side 
by side until the rain began to fall, when she drew 
nearer to him, and they entered the station talking 
gayly. 

“ Your umbrella is better than Virginia’s skirt,” 
she said. 

“ And what is Virginia’s skirt 't ” 

Have you not read Paul and Virginia ? ” 

‘‘ No.” 

She looked at him with a mocking smile, wonder- 
ing what superior men read. 

Not only had he not read Bernardin de Saint- 
Pierre’s romance, nor any others, but he had never 
been in love. He knew nothing of the affairs of 
the heart nor of the imagination. Leisure must be 
had for light reading, and even more for love, for 
they require a liberty of mind and an independence 
of life that he had not. Where would he find time 
to read novels ? When and how could he pay at- 
tention to a woman ? Those that he had known 
since his arrival in Paris had not had the slightest 
influence over him, and he retained only faint 
memories of them. On the contrary, thinking of 
this walk in the rain, he remembered this young 
girl with a vividness entirely new to him. She 
made a strong impression on him, and it remained. 
He saw her again with her smile that showed her 
brilliant teeth, he heard the music of her voice, and 
the bare plain that he had walked so many times 
now seemed the most beautiful country in the 


52 


Conscience. 


world to him. Evidently there was a change in 
him ; something was awakened in his soul ; for the 
first time he discovered that the hollow and muscu- 
lar conoid organ called the heart had a use besides 
the circulation of blood. 

What a surprise and what a disappointment ! 
Was he going to be simpleton enough to love this 
young girl and entangle his life, already so hard and 
heavily weighted, with a woman ? A fine thing, 
truly, and nature had built him to play the lover ! 
It is true that only those who wish it fall in love, 
and he knew the power of will by experience. 

But he soon lost confidence in himself. Away 
from Phillis he could do as he wished, but with her 
it was as she wished. With one look she mastered 
him. He met her, furious at the influence she 
exercised over him, and against which he had 
struggled since their last meeting ; he left her, 
ravished at feeling how profoundly he loved her. 

To a man whose life had been ruled by reason 
and logic until this moment, these contradictions 
were exasperating ; and he only excused himself for 
submitting to them by saying that they could in no 
way modify the line of conduct that he had traced 
out for himself, nor make him deviate from the road 
that he followed. 

Rich, or even with a small fortune, he might — 
when he was with her and in her power — let him- 
self be carried away ; but when he was dying of 
hunger he was not going to commit the folly of 


Conscience. 


53 


taking a wife. What would he have to give her ? 
Misery, nothing but misery ; and shame, in default 
of any other reason, would forever prevent him from 
offering himself to her. 

She was the daughter of an artist who, after 
years of struggle, died at the moment when fortune 
was beginning to smile upon him. Ten years more 
of work, and he would have left his family, if not 
rich, at least in comfortable circumstances. In re- 
ality, he left nothing but ruin. The hotel he built 
was sold, and, after the debts were paid, nothing re- 
mained but some furniture. His widow, son, and 
daughter must work. The widow, having no trade, 
took in sewing ; the son left college to become the 
clerk of a money-lender named Caffie ; the daugh- 
ter, who, happily for her, had learned to draw and 
paint under her father’s direction, obtained pupils, 
and designed 7nenus for the stationers, and painted 
silk fans and boxes. They lived with great ecoftomy, 
submitting to many privations. The brother, weary 
of his monotonous existence and of the exactions 
of his master, left them to try his fortunes in 
America. 

If Saniel ever married, which he doubted, certainly 
he would not marry a woman situated as Phillis was. 

This reflection was reassuring, and he was more 
devoted to her. Why should he not enjoy the de- 
licious pleasure of seeing her and listening to her ? 
His life was neither gay nor happy ; he felt perfect- 
ly sure of himself, and, as he knew her now, he was 


54 


Conscience. 


also sure of her — a brave and honest girl. Other- 
wise, how had she divined that he loved her ? 

They continued to see each other with a pleasure 
that seemed equal on both sides, meeting in the 
station, arranging to take the same trains, and talk- 
ing freely and gayly. 

Things went on in this way until the approach of 
vacation, when they decided to take a walk after 
their last lesson, instead of returning immediately to 
Paris. 

When the day came the sun was very hot ; they 
had walked some distance, when Phillis expressed a 
wish to rest for a few minutes. They seated them- 
selves in a shady copse, and soon found themselves 
in each other’s arms. 

Since then Saniel had never spoken of marriage, 
and neither had Phillis. 

They loved each other. 




VII. 

Saniel was still at work when Phillis returned. 

“ You have not yet finished, poor dear ? ” 

“ Give me time to cure, by correspondence, a 
malady that has not yielded to the care of ten phy- 
sicians, and I am yours.” 

In three lines he finished the affaire^ and left his 
desk. 

I am ready. What shall I do ?” 

“ Help me to take things out of my pockets.” 

“ Do not press it too hard,” she said to him, as 
he took each parcel. 

At last the pockets were empty. 

“ Where shall we dine ? ” she asked. 

“ Here, as the dining-room is transformed into a 
laboratory.” 

“ Then let us commence by making the fire. I 
wet my feet coming from the station.” 

do not know if there is any wood.” 

‘‘ Let us see.” 

She took the candle and they passed into the 
kitchen, which, like the dining-room, was a labor- 
atory, a stable where Saniel kept in cages, pigs from 
India and rabbits for his experiments, and where 


56 


Conscience. 


Joseph heaped pell-mell the things that were in his 
way, without paying any attention to the stove in 
which there never had been a fire. But their search 
was vain ; there was everything in this kitchen 
except fire-wood. 

“ Do you value these boxes ? ” she asked, caressing 
a little pig that she had taken in her arms. 

“ Not at all ; they enclosed the perfumes and 
tonics, but they are useless now.” 

They returned to the office, Saniel carrying the 
boxes. 

“ We will set the table here,” she said gayly, for 
Saniel told her that the dining-room was uninviting, 
for it was a small bacteriological laboratory. 

The table was set by Phillis, who went and came, 
walking about with a gracefulness that Saniel 
admired. 

“ You are doing nothing,” she said. 

“ I am watching you and thinking.” 

“ And the result of these thoughts ? ” 

“ It is that you have a fund of good humor and 
gayety, an exuberance of life, that would enliven a 
man condemned to death.” 

“ And what would have become of us, I would 
like to know, if I had been melancholy and discour- 
aged when we lost my poor papa ? He was joy 
itself, singing all day long, laughing and joking. 
He brought me up, and I am like him. Mamma, as 
you know, is melancholy and nervous, looking on 
the dark side, and Florentin is like her. I obtained 


Consciejtce. 


57 


a place for Florentin, I found work for mamma and 
for myself. W.e all took courage, and gradually 
we became calm.” 

She looked at him with a smile that said : 

“ Will you let me do for you what I have done 
for others ? ” 

But she did not speak these words. On the 
contrary she immediately endeavored to destroy the 
impression which she believed it made upon him. 

“ Go and bring some water,” she said, “ and I will 
light the fire.” 

When he returned, carrying a carafe, the fire 
blazed brightly, lighting the whole room. Phillis 
was seated at the desk, writing. 

“ What are you doing ? ” he asked in surprise. 

“ I am writing our 7nenu^ for you know we are 
not going to sit down at the table like the bour- 
geois. How do you like it ? ” 

She read it to him. 

'‘^Sardines de Nantes. 

“ Cuisse de dinde rdtie. 

'"'Terrine de pdt^ de foie gras aux truffes du P /ri- 
gor d.'' 

“But this is a feast.” 

“Did you think that I would offer you a frican- 
deau au jus ? ” 

She continued : 

Promage de Brie. 

“ Choux a la creme vanill/e. 

^^Pomme de Normandie. 


S8 


Conscience 


Wine ” 

“ Ah ! Voilh / What wine ? I do not wish to 
deceive you. Let us put, ‘ Wine from the wine-seller 
at the corner.’ And now we will sit down.” 

As he was about to seat himself, she said : 

“You do not give me your arm to conduct me to 
the table. If we do not do things seriously and 
methodically we shall not believe in them, and per- 
haps the Perigord truffles will change into little 
black pieces of anything else.” 

When they were seated opposite to each other, 
she continued jesting. 

“ My dear doctor, did you go to the representa- 
tion of ‘ Don Juan,’ on Monday ? ” 

“ And Saniel, who, in spite of all, had kept a 
sober face, now laughed loudly. 

^'‘Allans done!” she cried, clapping her hands. 
“ No more preoccupation, no more cares. Look 
into my eyes, dear Victor, and think only of the 
present hour, of the joy of being together, of our 
love. Est-ce dit ? ” 

She reached her hand over the table, and he 
pressed it in his. 

“ All right.” The dinner continued gayly, Saniel 
replying to Phillis's smiles, who would not permit the 
conversation to languish. She helped him to each 
dish, poured out his wine, leaving her chair occa- 
sionally to put a piece of wood on the fire, and such 
shoutings and laughter had never been heard before 
in that office. 


Conscience. 


59 


However, she noticed that, little by little, Saniel’s 
face, that relaxed one moment, was the next clouded 
by the preoccupation and bitterness that she had 
tried hard to chase away. She would make a new 
effort. 

“ Does not this charming little dinner give you 
the wish to repeat it ? ” 

“ How ? Where ? ” 

“ As I am able to come this evening without 
making mamma uneasy, I shall find some excuse to 
come again next week.” 

He shook his head. 

“ Have you engagements for the whole of next 
week ? ” she asked with uneasiness. 

“ Where shall I be next week, to-morrow, in a 
few days ? ” 

“ You alarm me. Explain, I beg of you. O 
Victor, have pity ! Do not leave me in suspense.” 

“ You are right ; I ought to tell you everything, 
and not let your tender heart torment itself, trying 
to explain my preoccupation.” 

“ If you have cares, do you not esteem me enough 
to let me share them with you ? You know that I 
love you, you only, to-day, to-morrow, forever ! ” 

Saniel had not left her ignorant of the difficul- 
ties of his position, but he had not entered into 
details, preferring to speak of his hopes rather than 
of his present misery. 

The story that he had already told to Glady and 
Caffie, he now told to Phillis, adding what had passed 


6o 


Conscience 


with the concierge^ the wine-seller, the coal man, 
and Joseph. 

She listened, stupefied. 

“ He took your coat ? " she murmured. 

“ That was what he came for.” 

“ And to-morrow ? ” 

‘‘ Ah ! to-morrow — to-morrow ! ” 

“ Working so hard as you have, how did you 
come to such a pass ? ” 

“ Like you, I believed in the virtue of work, and 
look at me ! Because I felt within me a will that 
nothing could weaken, a strength that nothing could 
fatigue, a courage that nothing could dishearten, I 
imagined that I was armed for battle in such a way 
that I would never be conquered, and I am con- 
quered, as much by the fault of circumstances as 
by my own ” 

“ And in what are you to blame, poor dear ? ” 

“ For my ignorance of life, stupidity, presump- 
tion, and blindness. If I had been less simple, 
would I have been taken in by Jardine’s proposi- 
tions ? Would I have accepted this furniture, this 
apartment ? He told me that the papers he made 
me sign were mere formalities, that in reality I might 
pay when I could, and that he would be content 
with a fair interest. That seemed reasonable, and, 
without inquiring further, I accepted, happy and 
delighted to have a home, feeling sure of having 
strength to bear this burden. To have confidence 
in one’s self is strength, but it is also weakness. 


Conscience. 


6i 


Because you love me you do not know me ; you do 
not see me as I am. In reality, I am not sociable, 
and I lack, absolutely, suppleness, delicacy, polite- 
ness, as much in my character as in my manners. 
Being so, how can I obtain a large practice, or 
succeed, unless it is by some stroke of luck ? I 
have counted on the luck, but its hour has not yet 
sounded. Because I lack suppleness I have not 
been able to win the sympathy or interest of my 
masters. They see only my reserve ; and because I 
stay away from them, as much through timidity as 
pride, they do not come to me — which is quite 
natural, I admit. And because I have not yielded 
my ideas to the authority of others, they have taken 
a dislike to me, which is still more natural. Because 
I lack politeness, and am still an Auvergnat, heavy 
and awkward as nature made me, men of the world 
disdain me, judging me by my exterior, which they 
see and dislike. More wary, more sly, more ex- 
perienced, I would be, at least, sustained by friend- 
ship, but I have given no thought to it. What good 
is it ? I had no need of it, my force was sufficient. 
I find it more stunning to make myself feared than 
loved. Thus formed, there are only two things 
for me to do: — remain in my poor room in the 
Hotel du Senat, living by giving lessons and by 
work from the. booksellers, until the examination and 
admission to the central bureau, or to establish 
myself in an out-of-the-way quarter at Belleville, 
Montrouge, or elsewhere, and there practise among 


62 


Conscience. 


people who will demand neither politeness nor fine 
manners. As these two ways are reasonable, I have 
made up my mind to neither. Belleville, because 
I would work only with my legs, like one of my 
comrades whom I saw work at Villette : ‘ Your 
tongue, good. Your arm, good.’ And while he is 
supposed to be feeling the pulse of the patient with 
one hand, with the other he is writing his prescrip- 
tion : ‘ Vomitive, purgative, forty sous ; ’ and he 
hurries away, his diagnosis having taken less than 
five minutes ; he had no time to waste. I object 
to the Hotel du Senat because I have had enough 
of it, and it was there that Jardine tempted me with 
his proposals. See what he has brought me to ! ” 
And now? ” 




VIIL 

At this moment, without warning, the candle on 
the table flared up and went out. 

Phillis rose. 

Where are the candles ?” she asked. 

‘‘ There are no more ; this was the last.” 

“ Then we must brighten up the fire.” 

She- threw a small log on the hearth, and then, 
instead of resuming her seat, she took a cushion 
from the sofa, and placing it before the chimney, 
threw herself upon it, and leaned her elbow on 
Saniel’s knee. 

‘‘And now ?” she repeated, her eyes raised to 
his. 

“ Now I suppose the only thing for me to do is to 
return to Auvergne and become a country doctor.” 

“My God ! is it possible?” she murmured in a 
tone that surprised Saniel. If there was sadness in 
this cry, there was also another sentiment that he 
did not understand. 

“ On leaving the school I could continue to live 
at the Hotel du Senat, and, while giving lessons, 
prepare my concoursj now, after having reached a 
certain position, can I return to this life of poverty 
and study ? My creditors, who have fallen on me 


64 


Conscience. 


here, will harass me, and my competitors will mock 
my misery — which is caused by my vices. They 
will think that I dishonor the Faculty, and I shall 
be rebuffed. Neither doctor of the hospitals nor 
fellow, I shall be reduced to nothing but a doctor 
of the quarter. Of what use is it ? The effort has 
been made here; you see how it has succeeded.” 

“ Then you mean to go ? ” 

“ Not without sorrow and despair, since it will be 
our separation, the renouncement of all the hopes on 
which I have lived for ten years, the abandonment 
of my work, death itself. You see now why, in spite 
of your gayety, I have not been able to hide my pre- 
occupation from you. The more charming you were, 
the more I felt how dear you are, and the greater 
my despair at the thought of separation.” 

“ Why should we separate ? ” 

“ What do you want ? ” 

She turned towards him. 

“ To go with you. You must acknowledge that 
until this moment I have never spoken to you of 
marriage, and never have I let the thought appear 
that you might one day make me your wife. In 
your position, in the struggle you have been through, 
a wife would have been a burden that would have 
paralyzed you ; above all, such a poor, miserable 
creature as myself, with no dot but her misery and 
that of her family. But the conditions are no 
longer the same. You are as miserable as I am, and 
more desperate. In your own country, where you 


Conscience, 


65 


have only distant relations who are nothing to you, 
as they have not your education or ideas, desires 
or habits, what will become of you all alone with 
your disappointment and regrets? If you accept 
me, I will go with you ; together, and loving each 
other, we cannot be unhappy anywhere. When you 
come home fatigued you will find me with a smile ; 
when you stay at home you will tell me your 
thoughts, and explain your work, and I will try to 
understand. I have no fear of poverty, you know, 
and neither do I fear solitude. Wherever we are 
together 1 shall be happy. All that I ask of you is 
to take my mother with us, because you know I 
cannot leave her alone. In attending her, you have 
learned to know her well enough to know that she 
is not disagreeable or difficult to please. As for 
Florentin, he will remain in Paris and work. Plis 
trip to America has made him wise, and his ambi- 
tion will now be easily satisfied ; to earn a small sal- 
ary is all that he asks. Without doubt we shall be a 
burden, but not so heavy as one might think at first. 
A woman, when she chooses, brings order and econ- 
omy into a house, and I promise you that I will be 
this woman. And then I will work. I am sure 
my stationer will give me as many menus when I am 
in Auvergne as he does now that I am in Paris. I 
could, also, without doubt, procure other work. It 
would be a hundred francs a month, perhaps a 
hundred and fifty, perhaps even two hundred. 
While waiting for your patients to come, we could 
5 


66 


Conscience. 


live on this money. In Auvergne living must be 
cheap.” 

She had taken his hands in hers, and she watched 
anxiously his face as the firelight shone on it, to see 
the effect of her words. It was the life of both of 
them that was to be decided, and the fulness of her 
heart made her voice tremble. What would he 
reply ? She saw that his face was agitated, without 
being able to read more. 

As she remained silent, he took her head in 
his hands, and looked in her face for several mo- 
ments. 

How you love me !. ” he said. 

“ Let me prove it in someway besides in words.” 

‘Ht would be cowardly to let you share my 
misery.” 

” It would be loving me enough to feel sure that 
I would be happy.” 

And I ? ” 

“ Is not the love in your heart greater than pride ? 
Do you not feel that since I have loved you my love 
has filled all my life, and that there is nothing in the 
world, in the present or in the future, but it and 
you ? Because I see you for several hours from 
time to time in Paris, I am happy ; whatever diffi- 
culties await us, I should be much happier in 
Auvergne, because we should be together always.” 

He remained silent for some time. 

Could you love me there ?” he murmured. 

Evidently it was more to himself than to her 


Conscience. 


67 


that he addressed this question, which was the sum 
of his reflections. 

“ O dear Victor ! ” she cried. “ Why do you 
doubt me ? Have I deserved it ? The past, the 
present, do they not assure the future ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ The man you have loved, whom you love, has 
never shown himself to you as he really is. In spite 
of the trials and sorrows of his life he has been able 
to answer your smile with a smile, because, cruel as 
his life was, he was sustained by hope and confi- 
dence ; in Auvergne there will be no more hope or 
confidence, but the madness of a broken life, and 
the dejection of impotence. What sort of a man 
should I be ? Could you love such a man ? ” 

A thousand times more, for he would be un- 
happy, and I should have to comfort him.” 

“ Would you have the strength to do it ? After a 
time you would become weary, for the burden would 
be too heavy, however great your devotion or pro- 
found your tenderness, to see my position and my 
hopes, and, descending into the future, to see my 
ruin. You know I am ambitious without having 
ever compassed the scope of this ambition, and of 
the hopes, dreams if you like, on which it rests. 
Understand that these dreams are on the eve of 
being realized ; two months more, and in December 
or January I pass the concours for the central bureau, 
which will make me a physician of the hospitals, and 
at the same time the one for the admission, which 


68 


Conscience. 


opens the Faculty of Medicine to me. Without 
pride, I believe myself in a position to succeed — 
what sportsmen call ‘ in condition.’ And just when 
I have only a few days to wait, behold me ruined 
forever.” 

“ Why forever .? ” 

“ A man leaves his village for Paris to make a 
name for himself, and he only returns when bad 
luck or inability send him back. And then it is 
only every four years that there is a concours for ad- 
mission. In four years what will be my moral and 
intellectual condition ? How have I supported this 
exile of four years ? Imagine the effect that four 
years of isolation in the mountains will produce. 
But this is not all. Besides this ostensible end that 
I have pursued since I left my village, I have my 
special work that I can carry out only in Paris. 
Without having overwhelmed you with the details 
of medicine, you know that it is about to undergo a 
revolution that will transform it. Until now it has 
been taught officially, in pathology, that the human 
organism carries within itself the germ of a great 
many infectious diseases which develop spontane- 
ously in certain conditions ; for instance, that 
tuberculosis is the result of fatigue, privations, and 
physiological miseries. AVell, recently it has been 
admitted, that is to say, the revolutionists admit, a 
parasitical origin for these diseases, and in France 
and Germany there is an army looking for these 
parasites. I am a soldier in this army, and to help 


Conscience. 


69 


me in these researches I established a laboratory in 
the dining-room. It is to the parasites of tubercu- 
losis and cancers that I devote myself, and for seven 
years, that is, since I was house-surgeon, my com- 
rades have called me the cancer topic. I have dis- 
covered the parasite of the tuberculosis, but I have 
not yet been able to free it from all its impurities 
by the process of culture. I am still at it. That is 
to say, I am very near it, and to-morrow, perhaps, 
or in a few days, I may make a discovery that will 
be a revolution, and cover its discoverer with glory. 
The same with the cancer : I have found its microbe. 
But all is not done. See what I must give up in 
leaving Paris.” 

“ Why give all this up ? Could you not continue 
your researches in Auvergne ? ” 

“ It is impossible, for many reasons that are too 
long to explain, but one will suffice. The culture of 
these parasites can be done only in certain tempera- 
tures rigorously maintained at the necessary degree, 
and these temperatures can be obtained only by 
stoves, like the one in my laboratory, fed by gas, 
the entrance of which is automatically regulated by 
the temperature of the water. How could I use 
this stove in a country where there is no gas ? No, 
no ! If I leave Paris, everything is at an end — my 
position, as well as my work. I shall become a 
country doctor, and nothing but a country doctor. 
Let the sheriff turn me out to-morrow, and all the 
four years’ accumulations in my laboratory, all my 


70 


Conscience. 


works en train that demand only a few days or hours 
to complete, may go to the second-hand dealer, or 
be thrown into the street. Of all my efforts, weary 
nights, privations, and hopes, there remains only one 
souvenir — for me. And yet, if it did not remain, 
perhaps I should be less exasperated, and should 
accept with a heart less sore the life to which I shall 
never resign myself. You know very well that I am 
a revolts not a r/sign/.” 

She rose, and taking his hand, pressed it closely 
in her own. 

“You must stay in Paris,” she said. “Pardon 
me for having insisted that you could live in the 
country. I thought more of myself than of you, 
of our love and our marriage. It was an egotistic 
thought, a bad thought. A way must be found, no 
matter what it costs, to enable you to continue your 
work.” 

“ But how to find it ? Do you think I have not 
tried everything ? ” 

He related his visits to Jardine, his solicitations, 
prayers, and also his request of a loan from Glady, 
and his visit to Caffi^. 

“ Caffie ! ” she cried. “ What made you think of 
going to Caffie ? ” 

“ I went partly because you had often spoken of 
him.” 

“ But I spoke of him to you as the most wicked 
of men, capable of anything and everything that is 
bad.” 


Conscience. 


71 


“ And partly, also, because I knew from one of 
my patients that he lends to those of whom he can 
make use.” 

“ What did he say to you ? ” 

“ That it was probable he would not be able to 
find any one who would lend what I wished, but he 
would try to find some one, and would give me an 
answer to-morrow evening. He also promised to 
protect me from Jardine.” 

“You have put yourself in his hands ?” 

“ Well, what do you expect ? In my position I 
am not at liberty to go to whom I wish and to those 
who inspire me with confidence in their honor. If 
I should go to a notary or a banker they would not 
listen to me, for I should be obliged to tell them, 
the first thing, that I have no security to offer. 
That is how the unfortunate fall into the hands of 
rascals ; at least, these listen to them, and lend them 
something, small though it may be.” 

“ What did he give you ? ” 

“ Advice.” 

“ And you took it ? ” 

“ There is time gained. To-morrow, perhaps, I 
shall be turned into the street. Caffi^ will obtain a 
respite.” 

“ And what price will he ask for this service ? ” 

“ It is only those who own something who worry 
about the price.” 

“ You have your name, dignity, and honor, and 
once you are in Caffie’s hands,, who knows what he 


72 


Conscience. 


may exact from you, what he may make you do, 
without your being able to resist him ? ” 

“ Then you wish me to leave Paris ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; but I wish you to be on your 
guard against Caffie, whom you do not know, and I 
do, through what Florentin told us when he was with 
him. However secret a man may be, he cannot hide 
himself from his clerk. He is not only guilty of ras- 
calities, but also of real crimes. I assure you that 
he deserves ten deaths. To gain a hundred francs 
he will do anything ; he makes money only for the 
pleasure of making it, for he has neither child nor 
relative.” 

“ Well, I promise to be on my guard as you 
advise. But, wicked as Caffie may be, I believe that 
I shall accept concours that he offered me. Who 
knows what may happen in the short time that he 
gains for me ? Because I need not tell you that I 
know beforehand what his reply will be to my 
request for a loan — he could find no one.” 

“ I shall come, all the same, to-morrow evening to 
learn his answer.” 




IX. 

Although Saniel did not build any false hopes 
on Caffi^'s reply, he went to see him the next after- 
noon at the same hour. 

As before, he waited some time after ringing the 
bell. At last he heard a slow step on the tiled 
floor. 

“ Who is there ? ” Caffie’s voice asked. 

As soon as Saniel answered, the door was opened. 

“ As I do not like to be disturbed in the evening 
by troublesome people, I do not always open the 
door,” Caffie said. “ But I have a signal for my 
clients so that I may know them. After ringing, 
knock three times on the door.” 

During this explanation they entered Caffi^’s 
office. 

“ Have you done anything about my affair ? ” 
Saniel asked, after a moment, as Caffie seemed dis- 
inclined to open the conversation. 

“ Yes, my dear sir. I have been running about 
all the morning for you. I never neglect my clients ; 
their affairs are mine.” 

He paused. 

“Well?” Saniel said. 


74 


Conscience. 


Caffie put on an expression of despair. 

“ What did I tell you, my dear sir ? Do you 
remember ? Do me the honor to believe that a 
man of my experience does not speak lightly. What 
I foresaw has come to pass. Everywhere I received 
the same reply. The risk is too great ; no one would 
take it.” 

‘‘ Not even for a large interest ? ” 

“ Not even for a large interest ; there is so much 
competition in your profession. As for me, I 
believe in your future, and I have proved it by 
my proposition ; but, unfortunately, I am only an 
intermediary, and not the lender of money.” 

Caffie emphasized the words, “ my proposition,” 
and underlined them with a glance ; but Saniel did 
not appear to understand. 

“ And the upholsterer’s summons ? ” he asked. 

“ You may be easy on that point. I have attend- 
ed to it. Your landlord, to whom he owes rent, will 
interfere, and your creditor must indemnify him 
before going farther. Will he submit ? We shall 
see. If he does, we will defend ourselves on some 
other ground. I do not say victoriously, but in a 
way to gain time.” 

“ How much time ? ” 

“ That, my dear sir, I do not know ; the whole 
thing depends upon our adversary. But what do 
you mean by ‘ how much time ? ’ — eternity ? ” 

“ I mean until April.” 

“ That is eternity. Do you believe that you will 


Conscience. 


75 


be able to free yourself in April ? If you have 
expectations founded on something substantial, you 
should tell me what they are, my dear sir.” 

This question was put with such an air of benevo- 
lence, that Saniel was taken in by it. 

“I have no guarantee,” he said. “But, on the 
other hand, it is of the utmost impbrtance to me 
that I should have this length of time. As I have 
explained to you, I am just about to pass two 
concours ; they will last three months, and in 
March, or, at the latest, in April, I shall be a phy- 
sician of the hospitals, and fellow of the Faculty. In 
that case I should then offer a surface to the lenders, 
that would permit you, without doubt, to find the 
sum necessary to pay Jardine, whatever expenses 
there may be, and your fee.” 

As he spoke, Saniel saw that he was wrong in 
thus committing himself, but he continued to the 
end. 

“ I should be unworthy of your confidence, my 
dear sir,” Caffid replied, “if I encouraged you with 
the idea that we could gain so much time. What- 
ever it costs me — and it costs me much, I assure 
you — I must tell you that it is impossible, radi- 
cally impossible ; a few days, yes, or a few weeks, 
but that is all.” 

“Well, obtain a few weeks,” Saniel said, rising, 
“ that will be something.” 

“ And afterwards ? ” 

“ We will see.” 


76 


Conscience. 


My dear sir, do not go. You would not believe 
how much I am touched by your position ; I think 
only of you. When I learned that I could not find 
the sum you desire, I paid a friendly visit to my 

young client of whom I spoke to you ” 

“ The one who received a superior education in a 
fashionable convent ? ” 

“ Exactly ; and I asked her what she would 
think of a young doctor, full of talent, future pro- 
fessor of the Faculty, actually considered already 
a savant of the first order, handsome — because you 
are handsome, my dear sir, and it is no flattery to 
say this — in good health, a peasant by birth, who 
presented himself as a husband. She appeared 
flattered, I tell you frankly. But immediately after- 
wards she said : ‘ And the child ? ’ To which I 
replied that you were too good, too noble, too 
generous, not to have the indulgence of superior 
men, who accept an involuntary fault with serenity. 
Did I go too far ? ” 

He did not wait for an answer. 

“ No ? ” he went on. “ Exactly. The child was 
present, for the mother watches over it with a solici- 
tude that promises much for the future, and I 
examined it leisurely. It is very delicate, my dear 
sir, and like its father. The poor baby ! I doubt 
if you, with all your skill, can make it live. If it 
should die, as it is to be feared it will, it would 
not injure your reputation. You can give it care, 
but not life.” 


Conscience. 


77 


Speaking of health,” interrupted Saniel, who 
did not wish to reply, “ did you do what I advised 
about yoiirself ? ” 

Not yet. The druggists of this quarter are only 
licensed cut-throats ; but lam going this evening 
to see one of my clients who is a druggist, and he 
will deal honestly with me.” 

“ I will see you again, then.” 

“ When you wish, my dear sir ; when you have 
reflected. You have the pass-word. ” 

Before leaving home Saniel gave his key to the 
concierge^ so that on her arrival Phillis might go 
immediately to his rooms. On his return the con- 
cierge told him that “ madame ” was up-stairs, and 
when he rang the bell, Phillis opened the door. 

“Well ?” she asked in a trembling voice, before 
he had time to enter. 

“ It is as I told you yesterday ; he has found no 
one.” 

She clasped him in a long, passionate embrace. 

“ And the upholsterer ? ” 

“ Caffie has promised to gain some time for me.” 

While speaking, they entered the office. A fire 
burned on the hearth, and an inviting dinner was on 
the table. Saniel looked at it in surprise. 

“ I have set the table, you see ; I am going to 
dine with you.” 

And throwing herself in his arms : 

“ Knowing Caffie better than you do, 1 knew what 
his answer would be, and T did not want you to 


78 


Conscience. 


be alone on your return. I made an excuse for 
not dining with mamma.” 

“ But this chicken ? ” 

We must have a pihe de resistance'' 

“ This fire, and these candles ? ” 

There, that is the end of my economies. I would 
have been so happy if they had been less miserable 
and more useful.” 

As on the previous evening, they sat before the 
fire, and she began to talk of various things in order 
to distract him. But what their lips did not say, 
their eyes, on meeting, expressed with more intensity 
than words could do. 

It was Saniel who suddenly betrayed his pre- 
occupation. 

“Your brother studied Caffie well,” he said, as if 
speaking to himself. 

“ Did he not ? ” 

“ He is certainly the most thorough rascal that I 
have ever met.” 

“ He proposed something infamous, I am sure.” 

“ He proposed that I should marry.” 

“ I suspected that.” 

“ This is the reason why he refuses to lend me 
the money. I was foolish enough to tell him frankly 
just how I am situated, and how important it is 
for me to be free until April. He hopes that I will 
be so pushed that I will accept one of the women 
whom he has proposed to me. With the knife at 
my throat, I should have to yield.” 


Conscience. 


79 


“ And these women ? ” she asked, not daring to 
look at him. 

“ Do not be alarmed, yon have nothing to fear. 
One is the drunken widow of a butcher, and the 
other is a young girl who has a baby.” 

“ He dares to propose such women to a man like 
you ! ” 

And Saniel repeated all that Caffie had said to 
him about these two women. 

‘‘ What a monster he is ! ” Phillis said. 

“ While he was telling me these things I thought 
of what you said — that if some one killed him, it 
would be no more than he deserved.” 

“ That is perfectly true.” 

“ Nothing would have been easier than for me to 
have made away with him. He had the toothache, 
and when he showed me his teeth I could easily 
have strangled him. We were alone, and a miserable 
diabetic, such as he is, who has not more than six 
months to live, I am sure, could not have resisted a 
grasp like this. I could take his keys from his 
pocket, open his safe, and take the thirty, forty, 
sixty thousand francs that I saw heaped up there. 
The devil take me if it were ever discovered. A 
doctor does not strangle his patients, he poisons 
them. He kills them scientifically, not brutally.” 

“ People who have no conscience can do such 
things ; but for us they are impossible.” 

‘‘ I assure you it is not conscience that would 
have restrained me.” 


So 


Conscience. 


“The fear of remorse, if I may use an ugly 
word.” 

“ But intelligent persons have no remorse, my 
dear child, because they reason before the deed, and 
not after. Before acting they weigh the pros and 
cons, and know what the consequences of their ac- 
tions will be to others as well as to themselves. If 
this previous examination proves to them that for 
some reason or other they may act, they will always 
be calm, assured that they will feel no remorse, 
which is only the reproach of conscience.” 

“ Without doubt, what you say is to the point, but 
it is impossible for me to accept it. If I have never 
committed crimes, I have often been foolish and 
have committed faults, many of them deliberately, 
after the examination of which you speak. I should 
have been, according to you, perfectly placid and 
free from the reproach of conscience ; however, the 
next morning I woke unhappy, tormented, often 
overwhelmed, and unable to stifle the mysterious 
voice that accused me.” 

“ And in whose name did it speak, this voice, 
more vague than mysterious ? ” 

“ In the name of my conscience, evidently.” 

“ ‘ Evidently ’ is too much, and you would be puz- 
zled if called upon to demonstrate this evidence ; 
whereas, nothing is more uncertain and elusive than 
the thing that is called conscience, which is in reality 
only an affair of environment and of education.” 

“ I do not understand.” 


Conscience. 


8i 


Does your conscience tell you it is a crime to 
love me ? ” 

No, decidedly.” 

“You see, then, that you have a personal way of 
understanding what is good and bad, which is not 
that of our country, where it is admitted, from 
the religious and from the social point of view, that 
a young girl is guilty when , she has a lover. Of 
course, you see, also, that conscience is a bad weigh- 
ing machine, since each one, in order to make it 
work, uses a weight that he has himself manufac- 
tured.” 

“ However it is, you did right to not strangle 
Caffie.” 

“ Whom you, yourself, have condemned to death.” 

“ By the hand of justice, whether human or 
divine ; but not by yours, any more than by Floren- 
tin’s or mine, although we know better than any one 
that he does not deserve any mercy.” 

“ And you see I foresaw your objections as I did 
not tighten his cravat.” 

“ Happily.” 

“ Is it necessary to say ‘ happily ’ ?” 



6 



X. 

This evening Phillis was obliged to be at home 
early, but she cleared off the table, and put every- 
thing in order before leaving. 

“You can breakfast on the remains of the 
chicken,” she said, as she put it in the pantry, with 
the sardines and the terrine de foie gras. 

And as Saniel accompanied her with a candle in 
his hand, he saw that she had thought not only of 
his breakfast for the following day, but for many 
days, besides carrots for the rabbits. 

“ What a good heart you have ! ” he said. 

“ Because I think of the rabbits ? ” 

“ Because of your tenderness and thoughtful- 
ness.” 

“ I wish I could do something for you ! ” 

As soon as she was gone he seated himself at his 
desk and began to work, anxious to make up for 
the time that he had given to sentiment. The fact 
that his work might not be of use to him, and that 
his experiments might be rudely interrupted the 
next morning or in a few days, was not a suffi- 
cient reason for being idle. He had work to do, 
and he worked as if with the certitude that he 
would pass his concours., and also that his experi- 


Conscience. 


83 


ments of four years past would have a good ending, 
without interference from any one. 

This was his strong point, this power to work, 
that was never disturbed or weakened by any- 
thing ; not by pleasure or pain, by preoccupation 
or by misery. In the street he could think of 
Phillis, be he hungry or sleepy ; at his desk he had 
no thought of Phillis, neither of hunger nor of sleep, 
no cares, no memories ; his work occupied him 
entirely. 

It was his strength, and also his pride, the only 
superiority of which he boasted ; for although he 
knew that he had others, he never spoke of them, 
while he often said to his comrades : 

“ I work when I will and as much as I wish. 
My will never weakens when I am at work.” 

This evening he worked for about an hour, in his 
usual condition of mind ; neither sheriffs, nor Jar- 
dine, nor Caffi6 troubled him. But having to draw 
upon his memory for certain facts, he found that it 
did not obey him as usual ; there was a hesitation, a 
fogginess, above all, extraordinary wanderings. He 
wrestled with it and it obeyed, but only for a short 
time, and soon again it betrayed him a second time, 
then a third and fourth time. 

Decidedly he was not in a .normal state, and his 
will obeyed in place of commanding. 

There was a name and a phrase that recurred to 
him mechanically from time to time. The name 
was Caffi^, and the phrase was, “ Nothing easier.” 


84 


Conscience. 


Why should this hypothesis to strangle 
of which he had lightly spoken, and to which he 
had attached no importance at the moment when 
he uttered it, return to him in this way as a sort of 
obsession ? 

Was it not strange ? 

Never, until this day, had he had an idea that he 
could strangle a man, even as wicked as this one, 
and yet, in talking of it, he found very natural and 
legitimate reasons for the death of this scamp. 

Had not Phillis herself condemned him ? 

To tell the truth, she had added that Providence 
or justice should be his executor, but this was the 
scruple of a simple conscience, formed in a narrow 
environment, to which influence he would not 
submit. 

Had he these scruples, this old man who coldly, 
and merely for the interest of so much a hundred 
on a dot^ advised him to hasten the death of a woman 
by drunkenness, and that of an infant in any way 
he pleased ? 

When he reached this conclusion, he stopped, and 
asked himself if he was a fool to pursue such an 
idea ; then immediately, to get rid of it, he set to 
work, which absorbed him for a certain time, but 
not so long a time as at first. 

Then, finding that he could not control his will, 
he turned his thoughts to Caffi6. 

It was only too evident that if he had carried out 
the idea of strangling Caffi^, all the difficulties against 


Conscience. 


85 


which he had struggled,* and which would overwhelm 
him, if not the following day, at least in a few days, 
would have disappeared immediately. 

No more sheriffs, no more creditors. What a 
deliverance ! 

Repose, the possibility of passing his concours 
with a calm spirit that the fever of material troubles 
would not disturb — in this condition he felt his suc- 
cess was assured. 

And his experiments ! He would run no danger 
of seeing them rudely interrupted. His preparations 
were not thrown into the street; his tubes des cultu7‘es 
were not broken ; his vases, his balloons, were not at 
the second-hand dealer’s. He continued this train 
of thought to the results that he desired — for him, 
glory; for humanity, the cure of one, and perhaps 
two, of the most terrible maladies with which it was 
afflicted. 

The question was simple : 

On one side Caffie ; 

On the other side, humanity and science ; 

An old rascal who deserved twenty deaths, and 
who would, anyhow, die naturally in a short time ; 

And humanity, science, which would profit by a 
discovery of which he would be the author. 

He saw that the perspiration stood out on his 
hands, and he felt it run down his neck. 

Why this weakness ? From horror of the crime, 
the possibility of which he admitted ? Or from fear 
of seeing his experiments destroyed ? 


86 


Conscience, 


He would reflect, think about it, be upon his guard. 

He had told Phillis that intelligent men, before 
engaging in an action, weigh the pro and con. 

Against Caffle’s death he saw nothing. 

For, on the contrary, everything combined. 

If he had had Phillis’s scruples, or Brigard’s be- 
liefs, he would have stopped. 

But, not having them, would he not be silly to 
draw back ? 

Before what should he shrink 'i Why should he 
stop ? 

Remorse ? But he was convinced that intelli- 
gent men had no remorse when they came to a 
decision on good grounds. It was before that they 
felt remorse, not after; and he was exactly in this 
period of before. 

Fear of being arrested ? But intelligent men do 
not let themselves be arrested. Those who are lost 
are brutes who go straight ahead, or the half-intelli- 
gent, who use their skill and cunning to combine a 
complicated or romantic act, in which their hand is 
plainly seen. As for him, he was a man of science 
and precision, and he would not compromise him- 
self by act or sentiment ; there would be nothing 
to fear during the action, and nothing afterwards. 
Caffi6 strangled, suspicion would not fall upon a 
doctor, but on a brute. When doctors wish to kill 
anyone, they do it learnedly, by poison or by some 
scientific method. Brutal men kill brutally j mur- 
der, called the assassin’s profession. 


Conscience. 


87 


A few minutes before, he was inundated by- 
perspiration ; this word froze him. 

He rose nervously, and walked up and down the 
room with long, unsteady steps. The fire had long 
since .gone out; out-of-doors the street noises had 
ceased, and in his brain resounded the one word 
that he pronounced in a low tone, “ Assassin ! ” 

Was he the man to be influenced and stopped by 
a word ? Where are the rich, the self-made men, 
the successfuhmen, who have not left some corpses 
on the road behind them ? Success carries them 
safely, and they only achieved success because they 
had force. 

Certainly, violence was not recreation, and it 
would be more agreeable to go on his way peace- 
fully, by the power of intelligence and work, than 
to make a way by blows ; but he had not chosen 
this road, he was thrown into it by circumstances, 
by fate, and whoever wishes to reach the end cannot 
choose the means. If one must walk in the mud, 
what matters it, when one knows that one will not 
get muddy ? 

If Caffie had had heirs, poor people who ex- 
•pected to be saved from misery by inheriting this 
fortune, he would have been touched by this con- 
sideration, undoubtedly. Robber ! The word was 
yet more vile than that of assassin. But who would 
miss the few bank notes that he would take from 
the safe ? To steal is to injure some one. Whom 
would he injure ? He could see no one. But he 


88 


Conscience, 


saw distinctly an army of afflicted persons whom 
he would benefit. 

A timid ring of the bell made him start violently, 
and he was angry with himself for being so nervous, 
^ he who was always master of his mind as of his body. 

He opened the door, and a man dressed like a 
laborer bowed humbly. 

“ I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir." 

“ What do you want ? " 

‘‘ I called on account of my wife, if you will be 
so good as to come to see her." 

“ What is the matter with her ? " 

She is about to be confined. The nurse does 
not know what to do, and sent me for a doctor.” 

“ Did the nurse tell you to come for me ? ” 

“ No, sir ; she sent me to Dr. Legrand.” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ His wife told me he could not get up on 
account of his bronchitis. And the druggist gave 
me your address.” 

“ That is right.” 

“ I must tell you, sir, I am an honest man, but 
we are not rich ; we could not pay you — im- 
mediately.” 

“ I understand. Wait a few minutes.” 

Saniel took his instruments and followed the 
laborer, who, on the way, explained his wife’s con- 
dition. 

“ Where are we going ? ” Saniel asked, interrupt- 
ing these explanations. 


Conscience. 


89 


“ Rue de la Corderie.” 

It was behind the Saint Honore market, on the 
sixth floor, under the roof, in a room that was per- 
fectly clean, in spite of its poverty. As soon as 
Saniel entered, the nurse came forward, and in a 
few words told him the woman’s trouble. 

“ Is the child living ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That is well ; let us see.” 

He approached the bed and made a careful 
examination of the patient, who kept repeating : 

“ I am going to die. Save me, doctor ! ” 

“ Certainly, we are going to save you,” he said, 
softly. “ I promise you.” 

He turned away from the bed and said to the 
nurse : 

The only way to save the mother is to kill the 
child.” 

The operation w^as long, difficult, and painful, 
and after it was over, Saniel remained a long time 
with the patient. When he reached the street a 
neighboring clock struck five, and the market-place 
had already begun to show signs of life. 

But in the streets was still the silence and soli- 
tude of night, and Saniel began to reflect on what 
had occurred during the last few hours. Thus, he 
had not hesitated to kill this child, who had, per- 
haps, sixty or seventy years of happy life before it, 
and he hesitated at the death of Caffie, to whom 
remained only a miserable existence of a few days. 


90 


Conscience. 


The interests of a poor, weak, stunted woman had 
decided him ; his, those of humanity, left him per- 
plexed, irresolute, weak, and cowardly. What a 
contradiction ! 

He walked with his eyes lowered, and at this 
moment, before him on the pavement, he saw an 
object that glittered in the glare of the gas. He 
approached it, and found that it was a butcher’s 
knife, that must have been lost, either on going to 
the market or the slaughter-house. 

He hesitated a moment whether he should pick 
it up or leave it there ; then looking all about him, 
and seeing no one in the deserted street, and hear- 
ing no sound of footsteps in the silence, he bent 
quickly and took it. 

Caffie’s fate was decided. 




XI. 

When, after two hours’ sleep, Saniel woke, he did 
not at first think of this knife ; he was tired and his 
ideas were confused and dull. Mechanically he 
walked about his room without paying attention to 
what he was doing, as if he were in a state of som- 
nambulism, and it astonished him, because he never 
felt a weariness of mind any more than of body, no 
matter how little he had slept. 

But suddenly, catching a glimpse of the knife that 
he had placed on the mantel, he received a shock 
that annihilated his torpor and his fatigue. It daz- 
zled him like a flash of lightning. 

He took it, and, going to the window, he examined 
it by the pale light of early morning. It was a 
strong instrument that, in a firm hand, would be a 
terrible arm ; newly sharpened, it had the edge of 
a razor. 

Then the idea, the vision that had come to him 
two hours before, came back to him, clear and com- 
plete : at nightfall, that is at the moment when the 
concierge was in the second wing of the building, 
he mounted to Caffie’s apartment without being 
seen, and with this knife he cut his throat. It was 
as simple as it was easy, and this knife left beside 


92 


Conscience. 


the corpse, and the nature of the wound, would 
lead the police to look for a butcher, or at least a 
man who was in the habit of using a knife of this 
kind. 

The evening before, when he had discussed 
Caffi6’s death, the how and the when still remained 
vague and uncertain. But now the day and the 
means were definitely settled : it would be with this 
knife, and this evening. 

This shook him out of his torpor and made him 
shudder. 

He was angry with himself for this weakness. 
Did he know or did he not know what he wished ? 
Was he irresolute or cowardly ? 

Then, going from one idea to another, he thought 
of an observation that he had made, and which 
seemed to prove that with many subjects there is 
less firmness in the morning than in the evening. 
Was this the result of dualism of the nervous cen-_ 
tres, and was the human personality double like the 
brain ? Were there hours when the right hemisphere 
is master of our will, and were there other hours when 
the left is master? Did one of these hemispheres 
possess what the other lacked, and is it according 
to the activity of this or that one, that one has such 
a character or such a temperament ? This would 
be curious, and would amount to saying that a lamb 
in the morning, one might be a tiger at evening. 
With him it was a lamb that woke in the morn- 
ing to be devoured by a tiger during the day. To 


Conscience. 


93 


which hemisphere belonged the one and the other 
of these personalities ? 

He was angry with himself for yielding to these 
reflections ; it was a time, truly, to study this psy- 
chological question. It was of Caffle that he should 
think, and of the plan which in an instant flashed 
through his mind in the street, before he decided 
to pick up this knife. 

Evidently things were neither so simple nor so 
easy as they at first appeared, and to insure the 
success of his plan, a combination of circumstances 
was necessary, which might be difficult to bring 
about. 

Would not the concierge see him pass ? Would 
no one go up or down the stairs ? Would Caffie be 
alone? Would he open the door? Might not 
some one ring after he had entered ? 

Here was a series of questions that he had not 
thought of before, but which now presented itself. 

He must examine them, weigh them, and not 
throw himself giddily into an adventure that pre- 
sented such risks. 

He was alone all day, fortunately, and, as in the 
state of agitation in which he found himself he 
could not think of work, he gave himself up to 
this examination. The stakes were worth the 
trouble — his honor and his life. 

As soon as he w’as dressed he went out, and 
walked straight before him through the streets that 
were already filled with people. 


94 


Conscience. 


It was only when he had left the centre of Paris 
that he could reflect as he wished, without being 
disturbed each instant by people in a hurry, for 
whom he must make way, or by others who, reading 
the new’spapers, did not look before them, and so 
jostled against him. 

Evidently the risks were more serious than he 
had imagined ; and, as they loomed up before him, 
he asked himself if he should go farther. To sup- 
press Caffle, yes ; to give himself up, no. 

“ If it is impossible ” 

He was not the man to set himself wildly against 
the impossible : he would have had a dream, a bad 
dream, and that would be all. 

He stopped, and, after a moment of hesitation, 
turning on his heel, he retraced his steps. Of what 
use was it to go farther ? He had no need to re- 
flect nor to weigh the pro and con; he must give 
up this plan ; decidedly, it was too dangerous. 

He had gone but a short distance when he asked 
himself if these dangers were really such as he saw 
them, and if he were truly face to face with a rad- 
ically demonstrated impossibility. 

Without doubt, the concierge might observe him 
when he passed her lodge, either on going up-stairs 
or coming down ; and, also, she might not observe 
him. This, in reality, depended much upon him- 
self, and on his method of proceeding. 

Every evening this lame old concierge lighted the 
gas in the two wings of the building, one on the 


Conscience. 


95 


street and one on the court. She began by lighting 
that on the street, and, with the difficulty that she 
found in walking, it should take her some time to 
climb the five stories and to descend. If one 
watched from the street when, at dusk, she left her 
lodge with a wax taper in her hand, and mounting 
the stairs behind her, at a little distance, in such a 
way as to be on the landing of the first story when 
she should reach the second, there would be time, 
the deed done, to regain the street before she 
returned to her lodge, after having lighted the gas 
on the two staircases. It was important to pro- 
ceed methodically, without hurry, but, also, without 
loitering. 

Was this impossible ? 

Here, exactly, was the delicate point which he 
must examine with composure, without permitting 
himself to be influenced by any other considera- 
tion than that which sprang from the deed itself. 

He was wrong, then, not to continue his route, and 
it was better, assuredly, to get out of Paris. In the 
country, in the fields or woods, he could find the 
calm that was indispensable to his over-excited 
brain, in which ideas clashed like the waves of a 
disturbed sea. 

He was at this moment in the middle of the 
Faubourg Saint Honore; he followed a street that 
would bring him to the Champs Elysees, a desert at 
this early hour. 

It took him some time to examine all the hypoth- 


96 


Conscience. 


eses that might present themselves, and he reached 
the conclusion that what had appeared impossible 
to him was not so. If he preserved his calmness, 
and did not lose perception of the passing time, he 
could very well escape the concierge., which was the 
main point. 

To tell the truth, the danger of the concierge re- 
moved, all was not easy. There was the possibility 
of meeting one of the lodgers on the stairs ; there 
was a chance of not finding Caffie at home, or, at 
least, not alone; or the bell might ring at the deci- 
sive moment. But, as everything depended upon 
chance, these circumstances could not be decided 
beforehand. It was a risk. If one of them hap- 
pened, he would wait until the next day ; it would 
be one more day of agitation to live through. 

But one question that should be decided in ad- 
vance, because, surely, it presented serious dangers, 
was how he should justify the coming into his hands 
of a sum of money which, providentially, and in the 
nick of time, relieved him from the embarrassments 
against which he struggled. 

He had reached the Bois de Boulogne and still 
continued his walk. In passing a fountain the rip- 
pling of the water attracted his attention, and he 
stopped. Although the weather was damp and cold 
under the influence of a strong west wind charged 
with rain, his tongue was dry ; he drank two goblets 
of water, and then pursued his way, indifferent where 
he went. 


Conscience. 


97 


Then he built up an arrangement which appeared 
ingenious to him, when it occurred to him to remem- 
ber that he had gone to Caffie to borrow three thou- 
sand francs. Why would he not lend it to him, if 
not the first day, at least the second ? With this 
loan he paid his debts, if he were questioned on 
this point. To prove this loan he need only to sign 
a receipt which he could place in the safe, and 
which would be found there. Would not the first 
thought of those who had signed a paper of this 
kind be to take it when an occasion presented itself ? 
As he would not seize this occasion to carry off his 
note, it would be the proof that he had not opened 
the safe. 

Among other advantages, this arrangement did 
away with robbery ; it was only a loan. Later he 
would return these three thousand francs to Caffi^’s 
heirs. So much the worse for him if it were a forced 
loan. 

On returning to Paris he would buy a sheet of 
stamped paper, and as he had asked the price the 
previous evening, he knew that he could afford the 
expense. 

When he reached Saint Cloud he entered a 
tavern and ordered some bread and cheese and 
wine. But if he drank little, he ate less, his parched 
throat refusing to swallow bread. 

He took up his march in the clayey streets on the 
slope of Mont Valerien, but he was insensible to 
the unpleasantness of slipping on the soft soil, and 
7 


93 


Conscience. 


walked hither and thither, his only care being not 
to get too far away from the Seine, so that he might 
enter Paris before night. 

He was delighted since he had made up his mind 
to make out and sign a receipt for the money. But 
on giving it further consideration, he perceived that 
it was not so ingenious as he had at first supposed. 
Do not the dealers of stamped paper often number 
their paper ? With this number it would be easy to 
find the dealer and him who had bought it. And 
then, was it not likely that a scrupulous business 
man like Caffie would keep a record of the loans he 
made, and would not the absence of this one and 
the note be sufficient to awaken suspicion and to 
direct it to him ? 

Decidedly, he only escaped one danger to fall 
into another. 

For a moment he was discouraged, but it did not 
go so far as weakness. His error had been in 
imagining that the execution of the idea that had 
come to him while picking up the knife was as 
plain as it was easy. But complicated and perilous 
as it was, it was not impossible. 

The question which finally stood before him was, 
to know if he had in him the force necessary to 
cope with these dangers, and on this ground hesita- 
tion was not possible ; to wish to foresee everything 
was folly ; that which he would not have expected, 
would come to pass. 

He returned towards Paris, and by the Pont de 


Conscience. 


99 


Suresnes re-entered the Bois de Boulogne. As it 
was not yet three o’clock, he had plenty of time to 
reach the Rue Saint Anne before night ; but, on the 
way, a heavy shower forced him to take shelter, and 
he watched the falling rain, asking himself if this 
accident, which he had not foreseen, would not upset 
his plan. A man who had received the force of this 
shower could not appear in the street before Caffie’s 
door without attracting the attention of the passers- 
by, and it was important for him that he should not 
attract the attention of any one. 

At length the rain ceased, and at twenty minutes 
of five he reached his home. There remained fifteen 
or twenty minutes of daylight, which was more than 
he needed. 

He stuck the point of the knife in a cork, and, 
after having placed it between the folded leaves of 
a newspaper, in the inside left-hand pocket of his 
overcoat, he went out. 




XII. 

When he reached Caffie’s door the night had 
scarcely fallen, and, although the gas in the shops 
burned brightly, the street lamps were not yet 
lighted. 

The better and the surest plan for him had been 
to wait in tlie porte cochere across the street ; from 
there he could watch the coficierge^ who would not 
be able to leave her lodge without being seen by 
him. But although the passers-by were few at this 
moment, they might have observed him. Next to 
this porte cochere was a small cafe^ whose brilliant 
gas-lights would cause him to be seen quite plainly. 
He, therefore, continued his way, but slowly, and 
soon returned. 

All irresolution, all hesitation, had disappeared, 
and the only point on which he still questioned him- 
self bore upon the state in w'hich he found himself 
at this moment. He felt himself firm, and his pulse, 
he was certain, beat regularly. He was as he had 
imagined he would be ; experience confirmed his 
foresight ; his hand would tremble no more than his 
will. 

he passed before the house he saw the con- 
cierge come slowly out of her lodge and close her 



WITH DRAGGING STEPS AND BENT BACK SHE DISAPPEARED THROUGH THE 

VESTIBULE OF THE STAIRWAY. 


/. TOT 



Conscience. 


lOI 


door carefully, putting the key in her pocket. In 
her left hand she held something white that he 
could not see distinctly in the twilight, but it was 
probably the wax taper which, doubtless, she had 
not lighted for fear the wind would blow it out. 

This was a favorable circumstance, that gave him 
one or two minutes more than he had counted on, 
for she would be obliged to strike a match on the 
stairs to light her taper ; and, in the execution of 
his plan, two minutes, a single minute even, might 
be of great importance. 

With dragging steps and bent back she disap- 
peared through the vestibule of the stairway. Then 
Saniel continued his walk like an ordinary passer-by 
until she had time to reach the first story ; then, 
turning, he returned to the porte coch'ere and entered 
quietly. By the gaslight in the vestibule he saw by 
his watch, which he held in his hand, that it was 
fourteen minutes after five o’clock. Then, if his 
calculation was right, at twenty-four or twenty-five 
minutes after five he must pass before the lodge, 
which should still be empty at that moment. 

On the staircase above him he heard the heavy 
step of the concierge; she had lighted the gas on 
the first story, and continued on her way slowly. 
With rapid but light steps he mounted behind her, 
and, on reaching Caffie’s door, he rang the bell, 
taking care not to ring too loudly or too timidly ; 
then he knocked three times, as Caffie had instruct- 
ed him. 


102 


Conscience. 


Was Caffie alone ? 

Up to this time all had gone as he wished ; no 
one in the vestibule, no one on the stairs ; fate 
was in his favor ; would it accompany him to the 
end ? 

While he waited at the door, asking himself this 
question, an idea flashed into his mind. He would 
make a last attempt. If Caffie consented to make 
the loan he would save himself ; if he refused, he 
condemned himself. 

After several seconds, that appeared like hours, 
his listening ears perceived a sound which announced 
that Caffie was at home. A scratching of wood on 
the tiled floor denoted that a chair had been pushed 
aside ; heavy, dragging steps approached, then the 
bolt creaked, and the door was opened cautiously. 

“ Ah ! It is you, my dear sir ! ” Caffie said in sur- 
prise. 

Saniel entered briskly and closed the door him- 
self, pressing it firmly. 

“ Is there anything new? ” Caffie asked, as he led 
the way to his office. 

“ No,” Saniel replied. 

“Well, then ?” Caffie asked, as he seated himself 
in an arm-chair before his desk, on which stood a 
lighted lamp. “ I suppose you have come to hear 
more about my young friend. This hurry augurs 
well.” 

“ No, it is not of the young person that I wish to 
talk to you.” 


Conscience. 


103 


“ I am sorry.’" 

On seating himself opposite to Caffie, Saniel had 
taken out his watch. Two minutes had passed 
since he left the vestibule ; he must hurry. In 
order to keep himself informed of the passing of 
time, he retained his watch in his hand. 

“ Are you in a hurry ? ” 

“ Yes ; I will come immediately to business. It 
concerns myself, my position, and I make a last 
appeal to you. Let us be honest with each other. 
Undoubtedly you think that, pushed by my distress, 
and seeing that I shall be lost forever, I will decide 
to accept this marriage to save myself.” 

“ Can you suppose such a thing, my dear sir ? ” 
Caffie cried. 

But Saniel stopped him. 

“ The calculation is too natural for you not to 
have made it. Well, I must tell you that it is false. 
Never will I lend myself to such a bargain. Re- 
nounce your project, and let us discuss my demand. 
I am in absolute want of three thousand francs, and 
I will pay the interest that you fix upon.” 

“ I have not found a money-lender, my dear sir. 
I have taken a great deal of trouble, I assure you, 
but I did not succeed.” 

“ Make an effort yourself.” 

“ Me ? My dear sir ! ” 

“ I address myself to you.” 

But I have no ready money.” 

“ It is a desperate appeal that I make. I under- 


104 


Conscience. 


stand that your long experience in business makes 
you insensible to the misery that you see every 
day ” 

“ Insensible ! Say that it breaks my heart, my 
dear sir.” 

“ But will you not permit yourself to be touched 
by the misery of a man who is young, intelligent, 
courageous, who will drown if a hand is not held 
out to help him ? For you, the assistance that I ask 
so earnestly is nothing ” 

“ Three thousand francs ! Nothing ! Bless me ! 
How you talk ! ” 

“ For me, if you refuse me, it is death.” 

Saniel began to speak with his eyes fixed on the 
hands of his watch, but presently, carried away by 
the fever of the situation, he raised them to look at 
Caffie, and to see the effect that he produced on 
him. In this movement he made a discovery that 
destroyed all his calculations. 

Caffie’s office was a small room with a high win- 
dow looking into the court ; never having been in 
this office except in the evening, he had not ob- 
served that this window had neither shutters nor 
curtains of muslin or of heavier stuff ; there was 
nothing but the glass. To tell the truth, two heavy 
curtains of woollen damask hung on either side of 
the window, but they were not drawn. Talking 
to Caffie, who was placed between him and this 
window, Saniel suddenly perceived that on the other 
side of the court, in the second wing of the build- 


Conscience. 


105 


ing, on the second story, were two lighted windows 
directly opposite to the office, and that from there 
anyone could see everything that occurred in the 
office. 

How should he execute his plan under the eyes 
of these people whom he saw coming and going in 
this room? He would be lost. In any case, it was 
risking an adventure so hazardous that he would 
be a fool to attempt it, and he was not that ; never 
had he felt himself so much the master of his mind 
and nerves. 

Also, it was not only to save Caffie’s life that 
he argued, it was to save himself in grasping this 
loan. 

‘‘ 1 can only, to my great regret, repeat to you 
what I have already said, my dear sir. I have no 
ready money.” 

And he held his jaw, groaning, as if this refusal 
aroused his toothache. 

Saniel rose ; evidently there was nothing for him 
to do but to go. It was finished, and instead of 
being in despair he felt it as a relief. 

But, as he was about to leave the room, an idea 
flashed through his mind. 

He looked at his watch, which he had not con- 
sulted for some time ; it was twenty minutes after 
five ; there yet remained four minutes, five at the 
most. 

“ Why do you not draw these curtains ? ” he said. 
“ I am sure your sufferings are partly caused by 
the wind that comes in this window.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 


io6 


Conscience. 


“ I am sure of it ; you should be warm about the 
head, and avoid currents of air.” 

Passing behind Caffi^, he went to the window 
to draw the curtains, but the cords would not 
move. 

“ It is years since they were drawn,” Caffie said. 
‘‘ Doubtless the cords are entangled. I will bring 
the light.” 

And, taking the lamp, he went to the win- 
dow, holding it high in order to throw light on the 
cords. 

With a turn of the hand Saniel disentangled the 
cords, and the curtains slid on the rods, almost 
covering the window. 

“ It is true a good deal of air did come in the 
window,” Caffie said. “ I thank you, my dear 
doctor.” 

All this was done with a feverish rapidity that 
astonished Caffie. v 

“ Decidedly, you are in a hurry,” he said. 

“Yes, in a great hurry.” 

He looked at his watch. 

“ However, I have still time to give you a consul- 
tation if you desire it.” 

“ I would not trouble you ” 

“You do not trouble me.” 

“ But ” 

“ Sit down in your armchair, and show me your 
mouth.” 

While Caffi4 seated himself, Saniel continued in 
a vibrating voice : 

“ You see I give good for evil.” 


Conscience. 


lOf 


“ How is that, my dear sir ? ” 

“You refuse me a service that would save me, 
and I give you a consultation. It is true, it is the 
last.” 

“ And why the last, my dear sir ? ” 

“ Because death is between us.” 

“ Death ! ” 

“ Do you not see it ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I see it.” 

“ You must not think of such a thing, my dear sir. 
One does not die because one cannot pay three thou- 
sand francs.” 

The chair in which Caffi6 seated himself was an 
old Voltaire, with an inclined back, and he half 
reclined in it. As his shirt-collar was too large for 
him since he had become thin, and his narrow cravat 
was scarcely tied, he displayed as much throat as 
jaw. 

Saniel, behind the chair, had taken the knife in 
his right hand, while he pressed the left heavily on 
Caffie’s forehead, and with a powerful stroke, as 
quick as lightning, he cut the larynx under the 
glottis, as well as the two carotid arteries, with the 
jugular veins. From this terrible wound sprang 
a large jet of blood which, crossing the room, 
struck against the door. Cut clean, not a cry 
could be formed in the windpipe, and in his arm- 
chair Caffie shook with convulsions from head to 
foot. 

Leaving his position behind the chair, Saniel, who 
had thrown the knife on the floor, looked at his 


io8 


Conscience. 


watch and counted the ticking of the second hand 
in a low voice. 

“ One, two, three ” 

At the end of ninety seconds the convulsions 
ceased. 

It was twenty-three minutes after five. Now it 
was important that he should hurry and not lose a 
second. 

The blood, after having gushed out, had run down 
the body and wet the vest pocket in which was the 
key of the safe. But blood does not produce the 
same effect upon a doctor as upon those who are 
not accustomed to its sight and odor, and to its 
touch. In spite of the lukewarm sea in which it 
lay, Saniel took the key, and after wiping his hand 
on one of the tails of Cafiie’s coat, he placed it in 
the lock. 

Would it turn freely, or was it closed with a com- 
bination ? The question was poignant. The key 
turned and the door opened. On a shelf and in 
a wooden bowl were packages of bank notes and 
rolls of gold that he had seen the evening when the 
bank clerk came. Roughly, without counting, he 
thrust them into his pocket, and without closing the 
safe, he ran to the front door, taking care to not 
step in the streams of blood which, on the sloping 
tiled floor, ran towards this door. The time was 
short. 

And now was the greatest danger, that of meeting 
some one behind. this door, or on the stairs. He 
listened, and heard no noise ; he went out, and no 
one was to be seen. Without running, but hastily, 


Conscience. 


109 


he descended the stairs. Should he look in the 
lodge, or should he turn his head away ? He looked, 
but the concierge was not there. 

A second later he was in the street mingling with 
the passers-by, and he drew a long breath. 




XIII. 

There was no longer any need to be cautious, to 
listen, to stretch his nerves, to restrain his heart ; he 
could walk freely and reflect. 

His first thought was to endeavor to explain to 
himself how he felt, and he found that it was an 
immense relief ; something, doubtless, analogous to 
the returning to life after having been in a state of 
asphyxiation. Physically, he had resumed his calm- 
ness ; morally, he felt no trouble, no remorse. He 
was not, therefore, deceived in his theory when 
he explained to Phillis that in the intelligent man 
remorse precedes the action, instead of following it. 

But where he was mistaken was in imagining that 
during the act he would maintain his coolness and 
force, which, in reality, failed him completely. 

Going from one idea to another, tossed by irreso- 
lution, he was by no means the strong man that he 
had believed himself to be : he who goes to the end 
unmoved, ready to face every attack from whatever 
quarter, master of his nerves as of his will, in full 
possession of all his powers. On the contrary, he 
had been the plaything of agitation and weakness. 
If a serious danger had risen before him, he would 
not have known on which side to attack it ; fear 


Conscience. 


Ill 


would have paralyzed him, and he would have been 
lost. 

To tell the truth, his hand had been firm, but his 
head had been bewildered. 

There was something humiliating in this, he was 
obliged to acknowledge ; and, what was more seri- 
ous, it was alarming. Because, although everything 
had gone as he wished, up to the present time, all 
was not finished, nor even begun. 

If the investigations of the law should reach him, 
how should he defend himself ? 

He felt sure that he had not been seen in Caffie’s 
house at the moment when the crime was commit- 
ted ; but does one ever know whether one has been 
seen or not ? 

And there was the production of money that he 
should use to pay his debts, which might become an 
accusation against which it would be difficult to 
defend himself. In any case, he must be ready to 
explain his position. And what might complicate 
the matter was, that Caffie, a careful man, had prob- 
ably taken care to write the numbers of his bank 
notes in a book, which would be found. 

On leaving the Rue Sainte-Anne he took the Rue 
Neuve-des-Petits-Champs to his home, to leave the 
bank notes and to wash off the stains of blood that 
might have splashed on him and his hands, partic- 
ularly the right one, which was still red. But sud- 
denly it occurred to him that he might be followed, 
and it would be folly to show where he lived. He 
hastened his steps, in order to make any one who 
might be following him run, and took the streets 


I 12 


Conscience. 


that were not well lighted, those where there was 
little chance of any one seeing the stains, if they 
were visible on his clothing or boots. He walked in 
this way for nearly half an hour, turning and return- 
ing on his track, and after having crossed the Place 
Vendome twice, where he was able to look behind 
him, he decided to go home, not knowing whether 
he should be satisfied to have bewildered all quest, 
or whether he should not be furious to have yielded 
to a sort of panic. 

As he passed before the lodge without stopping, 
his concierge called him, and, running out, gave 
him a letter with unusual eagerness. Saniel, who 
wished to escape observation, took it hastily, and 
stuffed it into his pocket. 

“ It is an important letter,” the concierge said. 
“ The servant who brought it told me that it con- 
tained money.” 

It needed this recommendation at such a moment, 
or Saniel would not have opened it, which he did as 
soon as he entered his rooms. 

“ I do not wish, my dear doctor, to leave Paris for Monaco, 
where I go to pass two or three months, without sending you 
our thanks. 

“Your very grateful, 

“ C. Duphot.” 

These thanks were represented by two bills of one 
hundred francs, a payment more than sufficient for 
the care that Saniel had given some months before 
to the mistress of this old comrade. Of what use 
now were these two hundred francs, which, a few 
days sooner, would have been so much to him ? He 


Conscience. 


113 


threw them on his desk ; and then, after having 
lighted two candles, he inspected his clothing. 

The precaution that he had taken to place him- 
self behind the chair, was wise. The blood, in squirt- 
ing in front and on each side, had not reached him ; 
only the hand that held the knife, and the shirt- 
sleeve were splashed, but this was of no conse- 
quence. A doctor has the right to have some blood 
on his sleeves, and this shirt went to rejoin the one 
he had worn the previous night when attending the 
sick woman. 

Free from this care, he still had the money in his 
pockets. He emptied them on his desk and counted 
all : five rouleaux of gold, of a thousand francs, and 
three packages of ten thousand francs each, of bank 
notes. 

How should he get rid of this sum all at once, 
and, later, how should he justify its production 
when the moment came, if it came ? 

The question was complex, and, unfortunately for 
him, he was scarcely in a state to consider it 
calmly. 

For the gold, he had only to burn the papers in 
which it was rolled. Louis have neither numbers 
nor particular marks, but bills have. Where should 
he conceal them while w^aiting to learn through the 
newspapers if Caffie had or had not made a note of 
these numbers ? 

While burning these papers on which Caffi^ had 
written, “1,000 francs,” he tried to think of a place 
of concealment. 

As he threw a glance around him, asking from 
8 


Conscience. 


114 


things the inspiration that his brain did not furnish, 
he caught sight of the letter he had just received, 
and it suggested an idea. Duphot was at Monaco 
to play. Why should he not go also, and play ? 

Having neither relatives nor friends from whom 
he could procure a certain sum, his only resource 
was to make it at play ; and in his desperate position, 
known to everyone, nothing was more natural than 
this experiment. He had received two hundred 
francs, which would not save him from his creditors. 
He would risk them at roulette at Monaco. 
Whether he lost or won was of little consequence. 
He would have played ; that would be sufficient. He 
would be seen playing. Who would know whether 
he lost or won ? From Monaco he would pay 
Jardine by telegraph, on the five thousand francs in 
gold, which would be more than sufficient for that ; 
and, when he returned to Paris, he would free 
himself from his other creditors with what re- 
mained. 

The money affair decided, and it seemed to him 
cleverly settled, did not include the bank notes, 
which, spread out before his eyes, disturbed him. 
What should he do with them ? One moment he 
thought of burning them, but reflection held him 
back. Would it not be folly to destroy this fortune ? 
In any case, would it not be the work of a narrow 
mind, of one not fertile in resources ? 

In trying to think of some safe place to hide the 
bank notes, one thought continually absorbed him : 
What was happening in the Rue Sainte-Anne ? Had 
any one discovered the dead man ? 


Conscience. 


115 


It was there that he should be to see, instead of 
cowardly shutting himself up in his office. 

For several minutes he tried to resist this thought, 
but it was stronger than his will or his reason. So 
much was he under its power that he could do 
nothing. 

Willing or unwilling, foolish or not, he must go 
to the Rue Sainte-Anne. 

He washed his hands, changed his shirt, and 
throwing the notes and gold into a drawer, he went 
out. 

He knew very well that there was a certain 
danger in leaving these proofs of the crime, which, 
found in an official search, would overwhelm him, 
without his being able to defend himself. But he 
thought that an immediate search was unlikely to 
occur, and if he could not make a probable story, 
it would be better for him not to reason about it. 
It Avas a risk that he ran, but how much he had on 
his side ! 

He hastened along the Rue Neuve-des-Petits- 
Champs, but on approaching the Rue Sainte-Anne 
he slackened his steps, looking about him and 
listening. Nothing unusual struck him. Even when 
he turned into the Rue Sainte-Anne he found it 
bore its ordinary aspect. A few passers-by, not 
curious ; no groups on the sidewalk ; no shop- 
keepers at their doors. Nothing was different from 
usual. 

Apparently, nothing had yet been discovered. 
Then he stopped, judging it useless to go farther. 
Already he had passed too much time before 


Conscience. 


1 16 


Caffie’s door, and when one was of his build, above 
the medium height, with a physiognomy and appear- 
ance unlike others, one should avoid attracting 
attention. 

For several minutes he walked up and down 
slowly, from the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs to 
the Rue du Hasard ; from there he could see 
Caffie’s house, and yet be so far away that no one 
would suspect him of watching it. 

But this promenade, which was quite natural, and 
which he would have continued for an hour in 
ordinary circumstances, without thinking anything 
about it, soon alarmed him. It seemed as if people 
looked at him, and two persons stopping to talk 
made him wonder if they spoke of him. Why did 
they not continue their way ? Why, from time to 
time, did they turn their heads towards him ? 

He left the place, and neither wishing nor being 
able to decide to go far away from “the house,” 
he concluded to go to a small caf^ which was close 

by- 

On entering, he seated himself at a table near the 
door that appeared to be an excellent observatory, 
from where he could easily survey the street. A 
waiter asked him what he would have, and he 
ordered coffee. 

He gave this order mechanically, without think- 
ing what he was saying, and not till afterwards did 
he wonder if it were natural to take coffee at this 
hour. The men seated at the other tables drank 
aperients or beer. Had he not made a blunder ? 

But everything seemed a blunder, as everything 


Conscience, 


117 


seemed dangerous. Could he not regain his com- 
posure and his reason ? He drank his coffee 
slowly ; then he asked for a newspaper. The 
street was quiet, and people left the caf^ one by 
one. 

Behind his newspaper he reflected. It was his 
feverish curiosity that made him admit that Caffie’s 
death would be discovered during the evening. In 
reality, it might easily remain undiscovered until 
the next day. But he could not stay in the cafi 
until the next day, nor even until midnight. Per- 
haps he had remained there too long already. 

He did not wish to go yet, so he ordered writing 
materials, and paid the waiter, in case he might 
want to go hastily if anything occurred. 

What should he write ? He wished to test him- 
self, and found that he was able to write clearly, 
and to select the proper words ; but when he came 
to read it over, his will failed him. 

Time passed. Suddenly there was a movement 
under the porte cockhre of ‘‘ the house,” and a man 
ran through the street. Two or three persons 
stopped in a group. 

Without hurrying too much, Saniel went out, and 
in a strong voice asked what had happened. 

“ An agent of business has been assassinated in 
his office. Word has been sent to the police 
bureau in the Rue du Hasard.” 




XIV. 

Saniel was there to see and to know, without 
having decided what he should do. Instantly, with 
the decision that had failed him so often during his 
vigil, he resolved to go to Caffie’s with the police. 
Was he not a doctor, and the physician of the dead 
man ? 

“ A money lender ! ” he said. “ Is it M. Caffie ? 

“ Exactly.” 

“ But I am his doctor.” 

“ A doctor ! Here is a doctor ! ” cried several 
voices. 

The crowd parted, and Saniel passed under the 
porte cochere, where the concierge, half fainting, was 
seated on a chair, surrounded by all the maids of 
the house and several neighbors, to whom she 
related the adventure. 

By using his elbows he was able to approach her.' 

“Who has said M. Caffie is dead ? ” he asked with 
authority. 

“ No one has said he is dead ; at least, I have 
not.” 

“ Well then ? ” 

“ There is a stain of blood that has run from his 
office down to the landing ; and as he is at home, 
since the light of his lamp is seen in the court, and 
he never leaves it burning when he goes to dinner. 


Conscience. 


119 


something must have happened. And why are his 
curtains drawn ? He always leaves them open.” 

At this moment two policemen appeared, pre- 
ceded by a locksmith armed with a bunch of keys, 
and a little man with a shrewd, sharp appearance, 
wearing spectacles, and a hat from under which fell 
blonde curls. The commissioner of police prob- 
ably. 

On which story ? ” he asked the concierge. 

“ On the first.” 

“ Come with us.” 

He started to go up-stairs, accompanied by the 
concierge^ the locksmith, and one of the policemen ; 
Saniel wished to follow them, but the other police- 
man barred the way. 

“ Pardon, M. Commissioner,” Saniel said. 

“ What do you wish, sir ?” 

“ I am M. Caffie’s physician.” 

“Your name?” 

“ Dr. Saniel.” 

“ Let the doctor pass,” the commissioner said, 
“ but alone. Make every one go out, and shut the 
porte cochlre.'" 

On reaching the landing the commissioner stopped 
to look at the brown stain which, running under 
the door, spread over the tiling, Caffie never having 
had a mat. 

“ It is certainly a stain of blood,” Saniel said, 
who stooped to examine it and dipped his finger 
in it. 

“ Open the door,” the commissioner said to the 
locksmith. 


120 


Conscience. 


The latter examined the lock, looked among his 
keys, selected one, and unlocked the door. 

“ Let no one enter,” the commissioner said. 
“ Doctor, have the goodness to follow me.” 

And, going ahead, he entered the first office, that 
of the clerk, followed by Saniel. Two little rills 
of blood, already thickened, starting from Caffie’s 
chair, and running across the tiled floor,’ which 
sloped a little towards the side of the stair-case, 
joined in the stain which caused the discovery of 
the crime. The commissioner and Saniel took care 
not to step in it. 

“ The unfortunate man has had his throat cut,” 
Saniel said. “ Death must have occurred two or 
three hours ago. There is nothing to do.” 

“Speak for yourself, doctor.” 

And, stooping, he picked up the knife. 

“ Is it not a butcher’s knife ? ” asked Saniel, who 
only came to use this word. 

“ It looks like it.” 

He had raised Caffi^’s head and examined the 
wound. 

“You see,” he said, “that the victim has been 
butchered. The stroke was from left to right, by a 
firm hand which must be accustomed to handle this 
knife. But it is not only a strong and practised 
hand that has done this deed ; it was guided by an 
intelligence that knew how to proceed to insure a 
quick, almost instantaneous death, and at the same 
time a silent one.” 

“ You think it was done by a butcher ? ” 

“ By a professional killer ; the larynx has been 


Conscience. 


I2I 


cut above the glottis, and with the same stroke the 
two carotid arteries, with the jugular veins. As the 
assassin had to raise the head, the victim was not 
able to cry out ; considerable blood has flowed, and 
death must have ensued in one or two minutes.” 

“ The scene appears to me very well recon- 
structed.” 

“ The blood should have burst out in this direc- 
tion,” Saniel continued, pointing to the door. “ But 
as this door was open, nothing is to be seen.” 

While Saniel spoke, the commissioner threw a 
glance about the room — the glance of the police, 
which takes in everything. 

“ The safe is open,” he said. “ The affair 
becomes clear ; the assassination was followed by 
theft.” 

There was a door opposite to the entrance, which 
the commissioner opened ; it was that of Caffle’s 
bedroom. 

‘‘ I will give you a man to help you carry the body 
into this room, where you can continue your exam- 
ination more easily, while I will continue my investi- 
gations in this office.” 

Saniel would have liked to remain in the office to 
assist at these investigations, but it was impossible 
to raise an objection. The chair was rolled into 
the bedroom, where two candles had been lighted 
on the mantel^ and when the body was laid on the 
bed, the commissioner returned to the office. 

Saniel made his examination last as long a time 
as possible, to the end that he need not leave the 
house ; but he could not prolong it beyond certain 


122 


Conscience. 


limits. When they were reached, he returned to the 
clerk’s office, where the commissioner had installed 
himself, and was hearing the concierge's deposi- 
tion. 

“ And so,” he said, “ from five to seven o’clock 
no one asked for M. Caffie ? ” 

“ No one. But I left my lodge at a quarter past 
five to light the gas on the stairs ; that took me 
twenty minutes, because I am stiff in my joints, and 
during this time some one might have gone up and 
down the stairs without my seeing them.” 

“Well,” the commissioner said, turning to Saniel, 
“ have you found any distinguishing feature ? ” 

“ No ; there is only the wound on the neck.” 

“ Will you draw up your medico-legal report while 
I continue my inquest ? ” 

“Willingly.” 

And, without waiting, he seated himself at the 
clerk’s desk, facing the commissioner’s secretary, who 
had arrived a few minutes previous. 

“ I am going to make you take the oath,” the 
commissioner said. 

After this formality Saniel began his report : 

“ We, the undersigned, Victor Saniel, doctor of 
medicine of the Paris Faculty, residing in Paris in 
the Rue Louis-le-Grand, after having taken an oath 
to fulfil in all honor and conscience the mission 
confided to us ” 

All the time that he was writing he paid attention 
to everything that was said, and did not lose one 
word of the concierge's deposition. 

“ I am certain,” she said, “ that from half-past five 


Conscience. 


123 


until now no one has gone up or down the stairs 
but the people who live in the house.” 

“ But before half-past five ? ” 

“ I have told you that from a quarter past five 
until half-past I Was not in my lodge.” 

“ And before a quarter past five o’clock ? ” 
Several persons passed whom I did not know.” 

“Did any one among them ask you for M. 
Caffie ? ” 

“ No ; that is to say, yes. There was one who 
asked me if M. Caffie was at home ; but I know 
him well ; that is why I answered No.” 

“ And who is he ? ” 

“ One of M. Caffi^’s old clerks.” 

“ His name ? ” 

“ M. Florentin — M. Florentin Cormier.” 

Saniel’s hand was arrested at this name, but he 
did not raise his head. 

“ At what hour did he come ? ” asked the com- 
missioner. 

“ Near three o’clock, before rather than after.” 

“ Did you see him go away ? ” 

“ Certainly, he spoke to me.” 

“ What time was it ? ” 

“ Half-past three.” 

“ Do you think that death could have occurred at 
this moment 1 ” the commissioner asked, turning to 
Saniel. 

“No ; I think it must have been between five and 
six o’clock.” 

“ It is impossible for the commissioner to suspect 
M. Florentin,” cried the concierge. “ He is a good 


124 


Conscience. 


young man, incapable of harming a fly. And then, 
there is a good reason why death could not have 
taken place between three o’clock and half-past 
three ; it is that M. Caffle’s lamp was lighted, and 
you know the poor gentleman was not a man to 
light his lamp in broad daylight, looking as he 
was ” 

She stopped abruptly, striking her forehead with 
her hand. 

“ That is what I remember, and you will see that 
M. Florentin has nothing to do with this affair. As 
I went up-stairs at a quarter past five to light my 
gas, some one came up behind me and rang at M. 
Caffie’s door, and rapped three or four times at equal 
distances, which is the signal to open the door.” 

Again Saniel’s pen stopped, and he was obliged to 
lean his hand on the table to prevent its trembling. 

Who w'as it ? ” 

“ Ah ! That I do not know,” she answered. “ I 
did not see him, but I heard him, the step of a man. 
It was this rascal who killed him, you may be sure.” 

This seemed likely. 

“ He went out while I was on the stairs ; he knew 
the customs of the house.” 

Saniel continued his report. 

After having questioned and cross-questioned the 
concierge without being able to make her say more, 
the commissioner dismissed her, and leaving Saniel 
at his work, he passed into Caffie’s office, where 
he remained a long time. 

When he returned he brought a small note-book 
that he consulted. Without doubt it was the book 


Conscience. 


125 


of Caffie’s safe, simple and primitive, like everything 
relating to the old man’s habits, governed by the 
narrowest economy in his expenses, as well as in his 
work. 

“According to this note-book,” the commissioner 
said to his secretary, “ thirty-five or thirty-six thou- 
sand francs must have been taken from the safe ; 
but there are left deeds and papers for a large sum.” 

Saniel, who had finished his report, did not take 
his eyes from the note-book, and what he could see 
reassured him. Evidently these accounts were re- 
duced to a minimum : a date, a name, a sum, and 
after this name a capital P, which, without doubt, 
meant “ paid.” It was hardly possible that with 
such a system Cafifie had ever taken the trouble 
to enter the number of the bills that had passed 
through his hands ; in any case, if he did, it was not 
in this note-book. Would another one be found ? 

“ My report is finished,” he said. “ Here it is.” 

“ Since you are here, perhaps you can give me 
some information concerning the habits of the vic- 
tim and the persons he received.” 

“ Not at all. I have known him but a short time, 
and he was my patient, as I was his client, by acci- 
dent. He undertook an affair for me, and I gave 
him advice ; he was in the last stage of diabetes. 
The assassin hastened his death only a short time 
— a few days.” 

“ That is nothing ; he hastened it.” 

“ Oh, certainly ! Otherwise, if he is skilful in 
cutting throats, perhaps he is less so in making a 
diagnosis of their maladies.” 


126 


Conscience. 


“That is probable,” responded the commissioner 
smiling. “You think it was a butcher ? ” 

“ It seems probable.” 

“ The knife ? ” 

“ He might have stolen it or found it.” 

“But the mode of operating.? ” 

“ That, it seems to me, is the point from where 
we should start.” 

Saniel could remain no longer, and he rose to 
leave. 

“You have my address,” he said; “but I must 
tell you, if you want me, I leave to-morrow for 
Nice. But I shall be absent only just long enough 
to go and return.” 

“ If we want you, it will not be for several days. 
We shall not get on very rapidly, we have so little 
to guide us.” 




XV. 

On following the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champsto 
return home, Saniel walked briskly. If, more than 
once during this long interview, his emotion was 
poignant, he could not but be satisfied with the result. 
The concierge had not seen him, that was henceforth 
unquestionable ; the hypothesis of the butcher’s 
knife was put in a way to make his fortune ; and 
it seemed probable that Caffie had not kept the 
numbers of the bank notes. 

But if they had been noted, and should the 
note-book containing them be discovered later, 
the danger was not immediate. While writing his 
report and listening to the concierge's deposition, by 
a sort of inspiration he thought of a way of dispos- 
ing of them. He would divide them into small 
packages, place them in envelopes, and address 
them with different initials to the poste restante^ 
where they would remain until he could call for 
them without compromising himself. 

In the deposition of the concierge^ in the track 
indicated by the knife, in the poste restante^ he had 
just motives for satisfaction, that made him breathe 
freely. Decidedly, fate seemed to be with him, and 
he would have been able to say that everything was 
going well, if he had not committed the imprudence 
of entering the caf^. Why had he gone there and 


128 


Conscience. 


remained long enough to attract attention ? What 
might not be the consequences of this stupidity ? 

As soon as he reached home and his door was 
closed, he carried out his intentions regarding the 
bank notes, dividing them into ten packages. His 
first thought was to place them in the nearest letter- 
box, but reflection showed him that this would be 
unwise, and he decided to mail each one in a differ- 
ent quarter of the city. 

After his long walk of the morning, and the emo- 
tions of the evening, he felt a fatigue that he had 
never known before, but he comprehended that he 
was not at liberty to yield to this weariness. A new 
situation was made for him, and henceforth he no 
longer belonged to himself. For the rest of his life 
he would be the prisoner of his crime. And it was 
this crime which, from this evening, would com- 
mand, and he must obey. 

Why had he not foreseen this situation when, 
weighing the pro and con like an intelligent man who 
can scrutinize the future under all its phases, he 
had examined what must happen ? But surprising 
as it was, the discovery was no less certain, and 
the sad and troublesome proof was that, however 
intelligent one may be, one can always learn by 
experience. 

What was there yet to learn ? He confessed that 
he found himself face to face with the unknown, 
and all that he wished was, that this lesson that he 
learned from experience might be the hardest. It 
would be folly to imagine that it was the last. Time 
would show. 


Conscience, 


129 


When he returned home, after posting his letters, 
it was long past one o’clock. He went to bed 
immediately, and slept heavily, without waking or 
dreaming. 

It was broad daylight when he opened his eyes 
the next morning. Surprised at having slept so 
late, he jumped up and looked at his watch, which 
said eight o’clock. But as he should not leave until 
a quarter past eleven, he had plenty of time. 

How should he employ it ? 

It was the first time in years that he had asked 
himself such a question ; he, who each day always 
found that he needed three or four hours more to 
carry out his programme. 

He dressed slowly, and then thought of writing to 
Phillis to tell her of his trip to Nice. But suddenly 
he changed his mind, and decided to go to see her. 

The preceding year he took care of Mme. Cormier, 
who had been stricken with paralysis, and he could 
occasionally present himself at her house without 
appearing to call upon Phillis. It was easy to say 
that he was passing by, and wished to learn news of 
the patient whom he had cured. 

At nine o’clock he knocked at her door. 

“ Enter,” a man’s voice said. 

He was surprised, for during his visits to Mme. 
Cormier he had never seen a man there. He crossed 
the hall and knocked at the dining-room door. 
This time it was Phillis who bid him come in. 

He opened the door and saw Phillis, in a gray 
blouse, seated before a large table placed by the 
window. She was painting some ‘cards. 

9 


130 


Conscience. 


Hearing steps, she turned her head and instantly 
rose, but she restrained the cry — the name that was 
on her lips. 

Mamma,” she said, ‘‘here is Dr. Saniel.” 

Mine. Cormier entered, walking with difficulty ; 
for, if Saniel had put her on her feet, he had not 
given her the suppleness or the grace of youth. 

After a few words, Saniel explained that, having 
to pay a visit to the Batignolles, he would not come 
so near his former patient without calling to see 
her. 

While Mme. Connier explained at great length 
how she felt, and also how she did not feel, Phillis 
looked at Saniel, uneasy to see his face so 
convulsed. Surely, something very serious had 
happened ; his visit said this. But what ? Her 
anguish was so much the greater, because he cer- 
tainly avoided looking at her. Why ? She had 
done nothing, and could find nothing with which to 
reproach herself. 

At this moment the door opened, and a man still 
young, tall, with a curled beard, entered the room. 

“ My son,” Mme. Cormier said. 

“ My brother Florentin, of whom we have 
spoken so often,” Phillis said. 

Florentin ! Was he then becoming imbecile, 
that he had not thought the voice of the man who 
bid him enter was that of Phillis’s brother ? Was 
he so profoundly overwhelmed that such a simple 
reasoning was impossible to him ? Decidedly, it 
was important for him to go away as quickly as 
possible ; the journey would calm his nerves. 


Conscience. 


131 


“ They wrote to me,” Florentin said, “ and since 
my return they have told me how good you were to 
my mother. Permit me to thank you from a touched 
and grateful heart. I hope that before long this 
gratitude will be something more than a vain 
word.” 

“ Do not let us speak of that,” Saniel said, look- 
ing at Phillis with a frankness and an open counte- 
nance that reassured her to a certain point. “ It is I 
who am obliged to Mme. Cormier. If the word were 
not barbarous, I should say that her illness has been 
a good thing for me.” 

To turn the conversation, and because he wished 
to speak to Phillis alone, he approached her table 
and talked with her about her work. 

Saniel then gave Mme. Cormier some advice, and 
rose to go. 

Phillis followed him, and Florentin was about to 
accompany them, but Phillis stopped him. 

“ I wish to ask Dr. Saniel a question,” she said. 

When they were on the landing she closed the 
door. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she asked in a hurried 
and trembling voice. 

“ I wished to tell you that I start for Monaco at 
eleven o’clock.” 

“ You are going away ? ” 

“ I have received two hundred francs from a 
patient, and I am going to risk them at play. Two 
hundred francs will not pay Jardine or the others, 
but with them I may win several thousands of 
francs.” 


132 


Conscience. 


“ Oh ! Poor dear ! How desperate you must be 
— you, such as you are, to have such an idea ! ” 

“ Am I wrong ? ” 

“ Never wrong to my eyes, to my heart, to my 
love. O my beloved, may fortune be with you ! ” 

“ Give me your hand.” 

She looked around, listening. There was no 
one, no noise. 

Then, drawing him towards her, she put her lips 
on his : 

“ All yours, yours ! ” 

“I will return Tuesday.” 

“ Tuesday, at five o’clock, I will be there.” 




XVI. 

No one knew so little about play as Saniel. He 
knew that people played at Monaco, and that was 
all. He bought his ticket for Monaco, and left the 
train at that place. 

On leaving the station he looked all about him, 
to see what kind of a place it was. Seeing nothing 
that looked like a gambling-house as he understood 
it, that is, like the Casino de Royat, the only estab- 
lishment of the kind that he had ever seen, he 
asked a passer-by : 

“ Where is the gambling-house ? ” 

There is none at Monaco.” 

“ I thought there was.” 

“ There is one at Monte-Carlo.” 

‘‘ Is it far ? ” 

‘‘ Over yonder.” 

With his hand the man indicated, on the slope of 
the mountain, a green spot where, in the midst of 
the foliage, were seen roofs and fagades of imposing 
buildings. 

Saniel thanked him and followed his directions, 
while the man, calling another, related the question 
that had been addressed to him, and both laughed, 
shrugging their shoulders. Could any one be so 
stupid as these Parisians ! Another one who was 
going to be plucked, and who came from Paris 


134 


Consciefice. 


expressly for that ! Was he not funny, with his big 
legs and arms ? 

Without troubling himself about the laughter that 
he heard behind him, Saniel continued his way. In 
spite of his night on the train, he felt no fatigue ; on 
the contrary, his mind and body were active. The 
journey had calmed the agitation of his nerves, and 
it was with perfect tranquillity he looked back upon 
all that had passed before his departure. In the 
state of satisfaction that was his now, he had 
nothing more to fear from stupidity or acts of folly; 
and, since he had recovered his will, all would go 
well. No more backward glances, and fewer still 
before. The present only should absorb him. 

The present, at this moment, was play. What 
did they play t He knew roulette, but he knew 
not if the game was roulette. He would do as 
others did. If he were ridiculed, it was of little 
importance ; and in reality he should desire to be 
ridiculed. People remember with pleasure those 
at whom they have laughed, and he had come here 
to find some one who would remember him. 

When he entered the salon where the playing 
was going on, he observed that a religious silence 
reigned there. Round a large table covered with a 
carpet of green cloth, which was divided by lines 
and figures, some men were seated on high chairs, 
making them appear like officers ; others, on lower 
chairs, or simply standing about the table, pushed 
or picked up the louis and bank bills on the green 
cloth, and a strong voice repeated in a monotonous 
tone : 


Conscience. 


135 


“ Messieurs, faites votre jeu ! Le jeu est fait / 
Rien ne va plus / ” 

Then a little ivory ball was thrown into a 
cylinder, where it rolled with a metallic noise. 
Although he had never seen roulette, it required no 
effort to divine that this was the game. 

And, before putting several louis on the table, he 
looked about him to see how it was played. But 
after the tenth time he understood as little as at 
first. With the rakes the croupiers collected the 
stakes of certain players ; with these same rakes 
they doubled, separated, or even paid in proportions 
of which he took no account, certain others, and 
that was all. 

But it rhattered little. Having seen how the 
money was placed on the table, that was sufficient. 

He had five louis in his hand when the croupier 
said : 

Messieurs, faites votre jeu!' 

He placed them on the number thirty-two, or, at 
least, he believed that he placed them on this 
number. 

“ Rien ne va plus ! " The ball rolled in the 
cylinder. 

“ Thirty-one ! ” cried the croupier, adding some 
other words that Saniel did not understand. So little 
did he understand roulette, that he thought he had 
lost. He had placed his stake on the thirty-two, and 
it was the thirty-one that had appeared ; the bank 
had won. He was surprised to see the croupier 
push a heap of gold towards him, which amounted 
to nearly a hundred louis, and accompany this 


136 


Conscience, 


movement with a glance which, without any doubt, 
meant to say : 

“ For you, sir.” 

What should he do ? Since he had lost, he 
could not take this money that was given to him 
by mistake. 

In placing his stake on the table, he had leaned 
over the shoulder of a gentleman whose hair and 
beard were of a most extraordinary black, who, 
without playing, pricked a card with a pin. This 
gentleman turned towards him, and with an amiable 
smile, and in a most gracious tone said : 

“ It is yours, sir.” 

Decidedly, he was mistaken in thinking he had 
lost ; and he must take this heap of louis, which he 
did, but neglecting to take, also, his first stake. 

The game continued. 

“ Thirty-two,” called the croupier. 

Saniel perceived that his five louis had remained 
on the thirty-two ; he believed that he had won, 
since this number was called, and his ignorance was 
such that he did not know that in roulette a number 
is paid thirty-six times the stake : the croupier 
would, therefore, push towards him one hundred 
and eighty louis. 

But, to his great surprise, he pushed him no more 
money than at first. This was incomprehensible. 
When he lost, money was paid to him, and when he 
won, he was paid only half his due. 

His face betrayed his astonishment so plainly, that 
he saw a mocking smile in the eyes of the black- 
haired man, who had again turned towards him. 


Conscience. 


137 


As he played merely for the sake of playing, and 
not to win or lose, he pocketed all that was pushed 
towards him and his stake. 

“ Since you are not going to play any more,” said 
the amiable gentleman, leaving his chair, “ will you 
permit me to say a word to you ? ” 

Saniel bowed, and together they left the table. 
When they were far enough away to converse with- 
out disturbing the players, the gentleman bowed 
ceremoniously : 

“ Permit me to present myself — Prince Mazza- 
zoli.” 

Saniel replied by giving his name and position. 

“ Well, doctor,” th^ prince said with a strong 
Italian accent, “you will pardon me, I hope, for 
making the simple observation that my age author- 
izes : you play like a child.” 

“Like an ignoramus,” Saniel replied, without 
being angry. For, however unusual this observa- 
tion might be, he had already decided that it might 
be a good thing in the future to call upon the testi- 
mony of a prince. 

“ I am sure you are still asking yourself why you 
received eighteen times the sum of your stake at 
the first play, and why you did not receive thirty-six 
times the sum at the second.” 

“ That is true.” 

“Well, I will tell you.” And he proceeded to 
explain. 

Saniel did not need to wait for the conclusion, 
to learn the fact that this very-much-dyed Italian 
prince was a liar. 


138 


Co7iscience. 


“ I do not intend to play again,” he said. 

“ With your luck that would be more than a 
fault.” 

“ I wanted a certain sum ; I have won it, and that 
satisfies me.” 

“ You will not be so foolish as to refuse the hand 
that Fortune holds out ? ” 

“Are you sure she holds it out to me?” Saniel 
asked, finding that it was the prince. 

“ Do riot doubt it. I will show you ” 

“ Thank you ; but I never break a resolution.” 

In another moment Saniel would have turned his 
back on the man, but he was a witness whom it 
would be well to treat with caution. 

“ I have nothing more to do here,” he said 
politely. “ Permit me to retire, after having thanked 
you for your offer, whose kindness I appreciate.” 

“ Well,” cried the prince, “ since you will not 
risk your fate, let me do it for you. This money may 
be a fetich. Take off five louis, only five louis, and 
confide them to me. I will play them according to 
my combinations, which are certain, and this evening 
I will give you your part of the proceeds. Where 
are you staying? I live at the Villa des Palmes.” 

“ Nowhere ; I have just arrived.” 

“ Then let us meet here this evening at ten 
o’clock, in this room, and we will liquidate our asso- 
ciation.” 

His first impulse was to refuse. Of what use to 
give alms to this old monkey ? But, after all, it did 
not cost much to pay his witness five louis, and he 
gave them to him. 


Conscience. 


139 


“ A thousand thanks ! This evening, at ten 
o’clock.” 

As Saniel left the room he found himself face 
to face with his old comrade Duphot, who was 
accompanied by a woman, the same whom he had 
cured. 

“ What ! you here ? ” both the lover and his mis- 
tress exclaimed. 

Saniel related why he was at Monaco, and what he 
had done since his arrival. 

With my money ! Ah ! She is very well,” 
Duphot cried. 

“ And you will play no more ? ” the woman 
asked. 

“ I have all I want.” 

“Then you will play for me.” 

He wished to decline, but they drew him to the 
roulette table, and each put a louis in his hand. 

“ Play.” 

“How?” 

“As inspiration counsels you. You have the 
luck.” 

But his luck had died. The two louis were 
lost. 

They gave him two others, which won eight. 

“ You see, dear friend.” 

He went on, with varying luck, winning and 
losing. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour they per- 
mitted him to go. 

“ And what are you going to do now ? ” Duphot 
asked. 


140 


Conscience. 


“ To send what I owe to my creditors by tele- 
graph.” 

“ Do you know where the telegraph is ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I will go with you.” 

This was a second witness that Saniel was too 
wise to shake off. 

When he had sent his telegram to Jardine, he 
had nothing more to do at Monte Carlo, and as he 
could not leave before eleven o’clock in the even- 
ing, he was idle, not knowing how to employ his 
time. So he bought a Nice newspaper and seated 
himself in the garden, under a gas-light, facing the 
dark and tranquil sea. Perhaps he could find in it 
some telegraph despatch which would tell him what 
had occurred in the Rue Sainte-Anne since his 
departure. 

At the end of the paper, under “ Latest News,” 
he read ; 

“ The crime of the Rue Sainte-Anne seems to 
take a new turn ; the investigations made with more 
care have led to the discovery of a pantaloon but- 
ton, to which is attached a piece of cloth. It shows, 
therefore, that before the crime there was a strug- 
gle between the victim and the assassin. As this 
button has certain letters and marks, it is a valuable 
clew for the police.” 

This proof of a struggle between the victim and 
the assassin made Saniel smile. Who could tell 
how long this button had been there ? 

Suddenly he left his seat, and entering a copse he 
examined his clothing. Was it he who had lost it ? 


Conscience. 


14 


But soon he was ashamed of this unconscious 
movement. The button which the police were so 
proud to discover, did not belong to him. This 
new track on which they were about to enter did 
not lead to him. 





XVII. 

On Tuesday, a little before five o’clock as she 
had promised, Phillis rang at Saniel’s door, and 
he left his laboratory where he was at work, to let 
her in. 

She threw herself on his neck. 

Well? ” she asked in a trembling voice. 

He told her how he had played and won, without 
stating the exact sum ; also the propositions of the 
Prince Mazzazoli, the meeting with Duphot, and 
the telegram to Jardine. 

“ Oh ! What happiness ! ” she said, pressing him 
in her arms. ‘‘You are free ! ” 

“No more creditors! I am my own master. 
You see it was a good inspiration. Justice willed 
it.” 

Then interrupting him : 

“ Apropos of justice, you did not speak of Caffie 
the morning of your departure.” 

“ I was so preoccupied I had no time to think of 
Caffie.” 

“ Is it not curious, the coincidence of his death 
with the condemnation that we pronounced against 
him ? Does it not prove exactly the justice of 
things ? ” 

“ If you choose.” 



SHE THREW HERSELF ON HIS NECK. “WELL?” SHE ASKED IN A 

TREMBLING VOICE. 

p. 142. 








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Conscience, 


143 


“ As the money you won at Monaco proves to 
you that what is just will happen. Caffie is pun- 
ished for all his rascalities and crimes, and you are 
rewarded for your sufferings.” 

Would it not have been just if Caffie had been 
punished sooner, and if I had suffered less ? ” 

She remained silent. 

You see,” he said smiling, that your philoso- 
phy is weak.” 

It is not of my philosophy that I am thinking, 
but of Caffie and ourselves.” 

‘‘ And how can Caffie be associated with you or 
yours ? ” 

“ He is, or rather he may be, if this justice in 
which I believe in spite of your joking, permits him 
to be.” 

“You are talking in engimas.” 

“ What have you heard about Caffie since you 
went away ? ” 

“Nothing, or almost nothing.” 

“You know it is thought that the crime was com- 
muted by a butcher.” 

“ The commissioner picked up the knife before 
me, and it is certainly a butcher’s knife. And more 
than that, the stroke that cut Caffie ’s throat was 
given by a hand accustomed to butchery. I have 
indicated this in my report.” 

“ Since then, more careful investigations have dis- 
covered a pantaloon button ” 

“ Which might have been torn off in a struggle 
between Caffie and his assassin, I read in a news- 
paper. But as for me, I do not believe in this 


144 


Conscience. 


struggle. Cafifi^’s position in his chair, where he 
was assaulted and where he died, indicates that the 
old scamp was surprised. Otherwise, if he had not 
been, if he had struggled, he could have cried out, 
and, without doubt, he would have been heard.” 

“ If you knew how happy I am to hear you say 
that ! ” she cried. 

“ Happy ! What difference can it make to you ? ” 
and he looked at her in surprise. “ Of what impor- 
tance is it to you whether Caffie was killed with or 
without a struggle? You condemned him; he is 
dead. That should satisfy you.” 

“ I was very wrong to pronounce this condemna- 
tion, which I did without attaching any importance 
to it.” 

“ Do you think that hastened its execution ? ” 

‘‘ I am not so foolish as that, but I would be 
better pleased if I had not condemned him.’ 

“ Do you regret it ? ” 

I regret that he is dead.” 

“ Decidedly, the enigma continues ; but you know 
I do not understand it, and, if you wish, we will 
stop there. We have something better to do than 
to talk of Caffie.” 

“On the contrary, let me talk to you of him, 
because we want your advice.” • 

Again he looked at her, trying to read in her 
face and to divine why she insisted on speaking of 
Caffie, when he had just expressed a wish not to 
speak of him. What was there beneath this insist- 
ance ? 

“ I will listen,” he said ; “ and, since you wish to 


Conscie7ice. 


145 


ask my advice on this subject, you must tell me 
immediately what you mean.” 

“You are right; and I should have told you 
before, but embarrassment and shame restrained 
me. And I reproach myself, for with you I should 
feel neither embarrassment nor reproach.” 

“Assuredly.” 

“ But before everything else, I must tell you — you 
must know — that my brother Florentin is a good 
and honest boy ; you must believe it, you must be 
convinced of it.” 

“ I am, since you tell me so. Besides, he pro- 
duced the best impression on me during the short 
time I saw him the other day at your house.^’ 

“ Would not one see immediately that he has a 
good nature?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Frank and upright ; weak, it is true, and a little 
effeminate also, that is, lacking energy, letting him- 
self be carried away by goodness and tenderness. 
This weakness made him commit a fault before his 
departure for America. I have kept it from you 
until this moment, but you must know it now. 
Loving a woman who controlled him and made him 
do what she wished, he let himself be persuaded 
to — take a sum of forty-five francs that she 
demanded, that she insisted on having that even- 
ing, hoping to be able to replace it three days later, 
without his employer discovering it.” 

“ His employer was Caffie ? ” 

“ No ; it was three months after he left Caffie, 
and he was with another man of business of whom 


10 


146 


Conscience. 


I have never spoken to you, and now you under- 
stand why. The money he expected, failed him ; 
his fault was discovered, and his employer lodged 
a complaint against him. We made him withdraw 
his complaint, never mind how, and Florentin went 
to America to seek his fortune. And since you 
have seen him, you admit that he might be capable 
of the fault that he committed, without being capa- 
ble — of becoming an assassin.” 

He was about to reply, but she closed his lips 
with a quick gesture. 

“You will see why I speak of this, and you will 
understand why I do not drop the subject of Caffie, 
and of this button, on which the police count to find 
the criminal. This button belonged to Florentin.” 

“To your brother?” 

“ Yes, to Florentin, who, the day of the crime, 
had been to see Cafifie.” 

“ That is true ; the concierge told the commis- 
sioner of police that he called about three o’clock.” 

Phillis gave a cry of despair. 

“ They know he was there ? Then it is more 
serious than we imagined or believed.” 

“ In answering a question as to whom Caffie had 
received that day, the concierge named your 
brother. But as this visit took place between three 
and half-past, and the crime was certainly com- 
mitted between five and half-past, no one can 
accuse your brother of being the assassin, since he 
left before Caffie lighted his lamp. As this lamp 
could not light itself, it proves that he could not 
have butchered a man who was living an hour after 


Conscience. 


147 


the concierge saw your brother and talked with 
him.” 

‘‘What you say is a great relief ; if you could 
know how alarmed we have been ! ” 

“ You were too hasty to alarm yourself.” 

“Too hasty? But when Florentin read the ac- 
count to -US and came to the button, he exclaimed, 
‘ This button is mine ! ’ and we experienced a shock 
that made us lose our heads. We saw the police 
falling on us, questioning Florentin, reproaching 
him with the past, which would be retailed in all 
the newspapers, and you must understand how we 
felt.” 

“ But cannot your brother explain how he lost 
this button at Caffie’s ? ” 

“Certainly, and in the most natural way. He 
went to see Caffie, to ask him for a letter of recom- 
mendation saying that he had been his clerk for 
several years. Caffie gave it to him, and then, in 
the course of conversation, Caffie spoke of a bundle 
of papers that he could not find. Florentin had 
had charge of these papers, and had placed them 
on a high shelf in the closet. As Caffie could not 
find them, and wanted them, Florentin brought a 
small ladder, and, mounting it, found them. He 
was about to descend the ladder, when he made a 
mis-step, and in trying to save himself, one of the 
buttons of his trousers was pulled off.” 

“ And he did not pick it up ? ” 

“ He did not even notice it at first. But later, 
in the street, seeing one leg of his trousers longer 
than the other, he thought of the ladder, and found 


Conscience. 


that he had lost a button. He would not return to 
Caffie’s to look for it, of course.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ How could he foresee that Caffie would be assas- 
sinated ? That the crime would be so skilfully 
planned and executed that the criminal would 
escape ? That two days later the police would find 
a button on which they would build a story that 
would make him the criminal ? Florentin had not 
thought of all that.” 

“ That is understood.” 

The same evening he replaced the button by 
another, and it was only on reading the newspaper 
that he felt there might be something serious in this 
apparently insignificant fact. And we shared his 
alarm.” 

‘‘ Have you spoken to any one of this button ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; we know too much. I tell you 
of it because I tell you everything ; and if we are 
menaced, we have no help to expect, except from 
you. Florentin is a good boy, but he is weak and 
foolish. Mamma is like him in more than one re- 
spect, and as for me, although I am more risistante, 

I confess that, in the face of the law and the police, 

I should easily lose my head, like children who 
begin to scream when they are left in the dark. Is 
not the law, when you know nothing of it, a night 
of trouble, full of horrors, and peopled with phan- 
toms ? ” 

“ I do not believe there is the danger that you ' 
imagined in the first moment of alarm.” 

“ It was natural.” 


Conscience. 


149 


Very natural, I admit, but reflection must show 
how little foundation there is for it. The button 
has not the name of the tailor who furnished it ? ” 
No, but it has the initials and the mark of the 
manufacturer ; an A and a P, with a crown and a 
cock.” 

“ Well ! Among two or three thousand tailors in 
Paris, how is it possible for the police to find those 
who use these buttons ? And when the tailors are 
found, how could they designate the owner of this 
button, this one exactly, and not another ? It is 
looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. Where 
did your brother have these trousers made ? Did 
he bring them from America 1 ” 

The poor boy brought nothing from America 
but wretchedly shabby clothes, and we had to clothe 
him from head to foot. We were obliged to econo- 
mize, and a little tailor in the Avenue de Clichy, 
called Valerius, made this suit.” 

“ It seems to me scarcely probable that the police 
will find this little tailor. But if they do, would he 
recognize the button as coming from his stock ? 
And, if they get as far as your brother, they must 
prove that there was a struggle ; that the button was 
torn off in this struggle ; that your brother was in 
the Rue Sainte-Anne between five and six o’clock ; 
in which case, without doubt, he will find it easy to 
prove where he was at that moment.” 

“ He was with us — with mamma.” 

‘‘ You see, then, you need not feel alarmed.” 



XVIII. 


Reassured, Phillis hurried to return to the Rue 
des Moines, to share with her mother and brother 
the confidence that Saniel caused her to feel. 

She pulled the bell with a trembling hand, for 
the time was past when in this quiet house, where 
all the lodgers knew each other, the key was left 
in the door, and one had only to knock before 
entering. Since the newspapers had spoken of the 
button, all was changed ; the feeling of liberty and 
security had disappeared ; the door was always 
closed, and when the bell rang they looked at each 
other in fear and with trembling. 

When Florentin opened the door, the table was 
set for dinner. 

“ I was afraid something had happened to you,” 
Mme. Cormier said. 

I was detained.” 

She took off her hat and cloak hastily. 

*‘You have learned nothing?” Mme. Cormier 
asked, bringing in the soup. 

“ No.” 

“ They spoke to you of nothing ? ” Florentin 
continued in a low voice'. 

“ They spoke to me of nothing else ; or I heard 
only that when I was not addressed directly.” 


Conscience. 


15^ 


“ What was said ? ” 

“ No one believes that the investigations of the 
police bear on the button.” 

“You see, Florentin,” Mme. Cormier interrupted, 
smiling at her son. 

But he shook'his head. 

“ However, the opinion of all has a value,” Phillis 
cried. 

“Speak lower,” Florentin said. 

“ It is thought that it is impossible for the police 
to find, among the two or three thousand tailors in 
Paris, all those who use the buttons marked A. P. 
And if they did find them, they could not designate 
all their customers to whom they have furnished 
these buttons. It is really looking for a needle in 
a bundle of hay.” 

“ When one takes plenty of time, one finds a 
needle in a bundle of hay,” Florentin said. 

“ You ask me what I heard, and I tell yon. But I 
do not depend entirely on that. As I passed near 
the Rue Louis-le-Grand, I went to Dr. Saniel’s ; 
it being his office hours I hoped to find him.” 

“You told him the situation?” Florentin ex- 
claimed. 

In any other circumstances she would have replied 
frankly, explaining that she had perfect confidence 
in Saniel ; but when she saw her brother’s agitation, 
she could not exasperate him by this avowal, above 
all, because she could not at the same time give her 
reasons for her faith in him. She must reassure 
him before everything. 

“No,” she said, “but I could speak of Caffie to 


152 


Conscience. 


Dr. Saniel without his being surprised. As he made 
the first deposition, was it not natural that my curi- 
osity should wish to learn a little more than the 
newspapers tell ? " 

“Never mind, the act must appear strange.” 

“ I think not. But, anyhow, the interest that we 
have to learn all made me overlook this ; and I 
think, when I have told you Dr. Saniel’s opinion, 
you will not regret my visit.” 

“ And this opinion ? ” Mme. Cormier asked. 

“ His opinion is, that there was no struggle 
between Caffie and the assassin, whereas the posi- 
tion of Caffie in the chair where he was attacked 
proves that he was surprised. Therefore, if there 
was no struggle, there was no button torn off, and 
all the scaffolding of the police falls to the ground.” 

Mme, Cormier breathed a profound sigh of deliv- 
erance. 

“ You see,” she said to her son. 

“ And Dr. Saniel’s opinion is not the opinion of 
the first comer, it is not even that of an ordinary 
physician. It is that of the physician who has 
certified to the death, and who, more than any one, 
has power, has authority, to say how it was given — 
by surprise, without struggle, without a button being 
pulled off.” 

“ It is not Dr. Saniel who directs the investigations 
of the police, or who inspires them,” replied Floren- 
tin. “ His opinion does not produce a criminal, while 
the button can — at least for those who believe in the 
struggle ; and between the two the police will not 
hesitate. Already the newspapers laugh at them 


CoTiscience. 


153 


for not having discovered the assassin, who has re- 
joined all the others they have let escape. They 
must follow the track they have started on, and this 
track ” 

He lowered his voice : 

“ It will lead them here.” 

“ To do that they must pass by the Avenue de 
Clichy, and that seems unlikely.” 

“ It is the possible that torments me, and not the 
unlikely, and you cannot but recognize that what I 
fear is possible. I was at taffie’s the day of the 
crime. I lost there a button torn off by violence. 
This button picked up by the police proves, accord- 
ing to them, the criminality of the one who lost it. 
They will find that I am the one ” 

‘‘ They will not find you.” 

“ Let us admit that they do find me. How should 
I defend myself ? ” 

“ By proving that you were not in the Rue Sainte- 
Anne between five and six o’clock, since you were 
here.” 

“ And what witnesses will prove this alibi ? I have 
only one — mamma. What is the testimony of a 
mother worth in favor of her son in such circum- 
stances ? ” 

“You will have that of the doctor, affirming that 
there was no struggle, and consequently no button 
torn off.” 

“ Affirming, but carrying no proof to support his 
theory ; the opinion of one doctor, which the opin- 
ion of another doctor may refute and destroy. And 
then, to demonstrate that there was no struggle, Dr. 


154 


Co7ts€ience. 


Saniel will say that Caffie was surprised. Who 
could surprise Caffie ? To open Caffie ’s door when 
the clerk was away, it was necessary to ring first, and 
then to knock three times in a peculiar way. No 
stranger could know that, and who could know it 
better than I ? ” 

Step by step Phillis defended the ground against 
her brother ; but little by little the confidence which 
at first sustained her weakened. With Saniel she vvas 
brave. Between her brother and mother, in this 
room that had witnessed their fears, not daring 
to speak loud, she was downcast, and let herself be 
overcome by their anxieties. 

“Truly,” she said, “it seems as if we were guilty 
and not innocent.” 

“ And while we are tormenting ourselve*, the 
criminal, probably, in perfect safety laughs at the 
police investigations ; he had not thought of this 
button ; chance throws it in his way. Luck is for 
him, and against us — once more.” 

This was the plaint that was often on Florentin’s 
lips. Although he had never been a gambler — and 
for sufficient reason — in his eyes everything was 
decided by luck. There are those who are born 
under a lucky star, others under an unlucky one. 
There are those who, in the battle of life, receive 
knocks without being discouraged, because they 
expect something the next day, as there are those 
who become discouraged because they expect 
nothing, and know by experience that to-morrow- 
will be for them what to-day is, what yesterday 
was. And Florentin was one of these. 


Conscience. 


155 


“ Why did I not stay in America ? ” he said. 

“ Because you were too unhappy, my poor boy ! ” 
Mme. Cormier said, whose maternal heart was 
moved by this cry. 

“Am I happier here, or shall I be to-morrow? 
What does this to-morrow, full of uncertainty and 
dangers, hold for us ? ” 

“Why do you insist that it has only dangers?” 
Phillis asked in a conciliating and caressing tone. 

“You always expect the good.” 

“ At least I hope for it, and do not admit deliber- 
ately that it is impossible. I do not say that life is 
always rose-colored, but neither is it always black. 
I believe it is like the seasons. After winter, which 
is vile, I confess, come the spring, summer, and 
autumn.” 

“ Well, if I had the money necessary for the 
voyage, I would go and pass the end of the winter 
in a country where it would be less disagreeable 
than here, and, above all, less dangerous for my con- 
stitution.” 

“ You do not say that seriously, I hope ? ” cried 
Mme. Cormier. 

“On the contrary. Very seriously.” 

“ We are scarcely reunited, and you think of a 
separation,” she said sadly. 

“ It is not of a separation that Florentin thinks,” 
cried Phillis, “ but of a flight.” 

“ And why not ? ” 

“ Because only the guilty fly.” 

“ It is exactly the contrary. The intelligent 
criminals stay, and, as generally they are resolute 


Conscience. 


156 


men, they know beforehand that they are able to 
face the danger ; while the innocent, timid like my- 
self, or the unlucky, lose their heads and fly, because 
they know beforehand, also, that if a danger 
threatens them, it will crush them. That is why I 
would return to America Jf 1 could pay my passage ; 
at least I should feel easy there.” 

There was a moment of silence, during which 
each one seemed to have no thought but to finish 
dinner. 

“ Granting that this project is not likely,” Floren- 
tin said, ‘‘I have another idea.” 

“ Why do you have ideas ? ” Phillis asked. 

“ I wish you were in my place ; we would see if 
you would not have them.” 

“ I assure you that I am in your place, and that 
your trouble is mine, only it does not betray itself 
in the same manner. But what is your idea ? ” 

“ It is to find Valerius and tell him all.” 

“And who will answer to us for Valerius’s discre- 
tion ? ” asked Mme. Cormier. “ Would this not be 
the greatest imprudence that you could commit ? 
One cannot play with a secret of this importance.” 

“Valerius is an honest man.” 

“ It is because he cannot work when political, 
or rather patriotic, affairs, go wrong, that you say 
this.” 

“ And why not ? With a poor man who lives in 
a small way by his work, are not this care and pride 
in his country marks of an honorable heart ? ” 

“ I grant the honorable heart, but it is another 
reason for being prudent with him,” Phillis said. 


Conscience. 


157 


“ Precisely because he may be what you think, 
reserve is necessary. You tell him what is passed. 
If he accepts it and your innocence, it is well ; he 
will not betray your secret voluntarily nor by 
stupidity. But he will not accept it ; he will look 
beyond. He will suppose that you wish to deceive 
him, and he will suspect you. In that case, would 
he not go and tell all to the police commissioner 
of our quarter ? As for me, I think it is a danger 
that it would be foolish to risk.” 

“And, according to you, what is to be done ? ” 

“ Nothing ; that is, wait, since there are a thousand 
chances against one for our uneasiness, and we 
exaggerate those that may never be realized.” 

“ Well, let us wait,” he said. “ Moreover, I like 
that ; at the least, I have no responsibilities. What 
can happen will happen.” 




XIX. 

In order to put the button found at Caffie’s on 
the track of the assassin, it required that it should 
have come from a Parisian tailor, or, at least, a 
French one, and that the trousers had not been sold 
by a ready-made clothing house, where the names 
of customers are not kept. 

The task of the police was therefore difficult, as 
weak, also, were the chances of success. As Saniel 
had said, it was like looking for a needle in a 
bundle of hay, to go to each tailor in Paris. 

But this was not their way of proceeding. In 
place of trying to find those who used these buttons, 
they looked for those who made them or sold 
them, and suddenly, without going farther than 
the directory, they found this manufacturer : “ A. 
Pelinotte, manufacturer of metal buttons for 
trousers ; trade-mark, A. P., crown and cock ; Fau- 
bourg du Temple.” 

At first this manufacturer was not disposed to 
answer the questions of the agent who went to see 
him ; but when he began to understand that he 
might reap some advantage from the affair, like the 
good merchant that he wa*s, young and active, h^ 
put his books and clerks at his disposition. His 
boast was, in .effect, that his buttons, thanks to a 
brass bonnet around which the thread was rolled 


Conscience. 


159 


instead of passing through the holes, never cut the 
thread and could not be broken. When they came 
off it was with a piece of the cloth. What better 
justification of his pretensions, what better adver- 
tisement than this button torn off with a piece of 
the trousers of the assassin ? The affair would go 
before the assizes, and in all the newspapers there 
would be mention of the “ A. P. buttons.” 

He was asked for his customers’ names, and 
after a few days the search began, guided by a list 
so exact that useless steps were spared. 

One morning a detective reached the Avenue de 
Clichy, and found the tailor Valerius in his shop, 
reading a newspaper. For it was not only when the 
country was in danger that Valerius had a passion 
for reading papers, but every morning and evening. 

Nothing that was published in the papers escaped 
him, and at the first words of the agent he under- 
stood immediately about what he was to be 
questioned. 

“ It is concerning the affair in the Rue Sainte- 
Anne that you wish this information ? ” he said. 

“ Frankly, yes.” 

“ Well, frankly also, I do not know if the secrets 
of the profession permit me to answer you.” 

The agent, who was by no means stupid, im- 
mediately understood the man’s character, and 
instead of yielding to the desire to laugh, caused 
by this reply honestly made by this good-natured 
man, whose long, black, bushy beard and. bald head 
accentuated his gravity, he yielded to the necessity 
pf the occasion. 


i6o 


Conscience. 


“That is a question to discuss.” 

“ Then let us discuss it. A customer, confiding 
in my honesty and discretion, gives me an order to 
make a pair of trousers ; he pays me as he agreed, 
without beating me down, and on the day he prom- 
ised. We are loyal to each other. I give him a 
pair of good trousers, honestly made, and he pays 
me with good money. We are even. Have I the 
right afterwards, by imprudent words, or otherwise, 
to furnish clews against him ? The case is a deli- 
cate one.” 

“ Do you place the interest of the individual 
above that of society ? ” 

“ When it is a question of a professional secret, 
yes. Where would we be if the lawyer, the notary, 
the doctor, the confessor, the tailor, could accept 
compromises on this point of doctrine ? It would 
be anarchy, simply, and in the end it would be the 
interest of society that would suffer.” 

The agent, who had no time to lose, began to 
be impatient. 

“ I will tell you,” he said, “ that the tailor, how- 
ever important his profession may be, is not placed 
exactly as the doctor or confessor. Have you 
not a book in which you write your customer^' 
orders ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ So that if you persevere in a theory, pushing it 
to an extreme, I need only to go to the commis- 
sioner of your quarter, who, in virtue of the power 
of the law conferred upon him, will seize your 
books.” 


Conscience. 


i6i 


That would be by violence, and my respon- 
sibility would be at an end.” 

“ And in these books the judge would see to 
whom you have furnished trousers of this stuff. It 
would only remain then to discover in whose inter- 
est you have wished to escape the investigations of 
the law.” 

Saying this, he took from his pocket a small box, 
and taking out a piece of paper, he took from it a 
button to which adhered a piece of navy blue stuff. 

Valerius, who was not in the least moved by the 
threat of the commissioner, for he was a man to 
brave martyrdom, looked at the box curiously. 
When the agent displayed the button, a movement 
of great surprise escaped him. 

“You see,” the agent exclaimed, “that you know 
this cloth ! ” 

“Will you permit me to look at it? ’’Valerius 
asked. 

“Willingly, but on condition that you do not 
touch it ; it is precious.” 

Valerius took the box, and approaching the front 
of the shop, looked at the button and the piece of 
cloth. 

“It is a button marked ‘A. P.,’ as you see, and 
we know that you use these buttons. ” 

“ I do not deny it ; they are good buttons, and I 
give only good things to my customers.” 

Returning the box to the agent, he took a large 
book and began to turn over the leaves ; pieces of 
cloth were pasted on the pages, and at the side 
were several lines of large handwriting. Arriving 


II 


i 62 


Conscience. 


at a page where was a piece of blue cloth, he took 
the box and compared this piece with that of the 
button, examining it by daylight. 

“ Sir,” he said, “I am going to tell you some very 
serious things.” 

“ I am listening.” 

“ We hold the assassin of the Rue Sainte-Anne, 
and it is I who will give you the means of discov- 
ering him.” 

“You have made trousers of this cloth ? ” 

“ I have made three pairs; but there is only one 
pair that can interest you, that of the assassin. I 
have just told you that the secrets of the profession 
prevented me from replying to your questions, but 
what I have just seen frees my conscience. As I 
explained to you, when I make a pair of good 
trousers for a customer who pays me in good money, 
I do not think I have the right to reveal the affairs 
of my client to any one in the world, even to the 
law.” 

“I understand,” interrupted the agent, whose 
impatience increased. 

“ But this reserve on my part rests on recipro- 
city : to a good customer, a good tailor. If the 
customer is not good the reciprocity ceases, or, 
rather, it continues on another footing — that of 
war; if any one treats me badly, I return the same. 
The trousers to which this stuff belongs ” — he 
showed the button — “ I made for an individual 
whom I do not know,‘and who presented himself to 
me as an Alsacian, which I believed so much more 
easily, because he spoke with a strong foreign ac- 


Conscience. 


163 


cent. These trousers, I need not tell you how care- 
ful I was with them. I am a patriot, sir. He agreed 
to pay for them on delivery. When they were 
delivered, the young apprentice who took them had 
the weakness to not insist upon the money. I went 
to him, but could obtain nothing ; he would pay 
me the next day, and so on. Finally he disap- 
peared, leaving no address.” 

“ And this customer ? ” 

“ I will give you his name without the slightest 
hesitation. Fritzner, not an Alsacian as I believed, 
but a Prussian to a certainty, who surely struck the 
blow ; his disappearance the day after the crime is 
the proof of it.” 

“ You say that you were not able to procure his 
address ? ” 

But you, who have other means at your disposal, 
can find him. He is twenty-seven or thirty years 
old, of middle height, blue eyes, a blond beard, and 
a complete blue suit of this cloth.” 

The agent wrote this description in his note-book 
as the tailor gave it to him. 

If he has not left Paris with these stolen thirty- 
five thousand francs, we will find him, and the 
thanks will be yours,” he said. 

“ I am happy to be able to do anything for 
you.” 

The agent was going, but he thought better of 

it. 

“You said that you had made three suits of this 
cloth ? ” 

“ Yes, but there is only this Fritzner who counts. 


164 


Conscience. 


The two others are honest men, well known in the 
quarter, and they paid me honestly.” 

“ Since they have no cause for alarm, you need 
have no scruples in naming them. It is not in the 
name of justice that I ask their names, but for my- 
self. They will look well in my report and will 
prove that I pushed my investigations thoroughly.” 

“One is a merchant in the Rue Truffant, and is 
called M. Blanchet ; the other is a young man just 
arrived from America, and his name is M. Floren- 
tin Cormier.” 

“ You say Florentin Cormier ? ” the agent asked, 
who remembered this name was that of one who had 
seen Caffie on the day of the crime. “ Do you 
know him ? ” 

“Not exactly; it is the first time that I have 
made clothes for him. But I know his mother and 
sister, who have lived in the Rue des Moines five or 
six years at least ; good, honest people, who work 
hard and have no debts.” 

The next morning about ten o’clock, a short time 
after Phillis’s departure, Florentin, who was reading 
the newspaper in the dining-room, while Mme. 
Cormier prepared the breakfast, heard stealthy steps 
that stopped on the landing before their door. His 
ear was too familiar with the ordinary sounds in the 
house to be deceived ; there was in these steps a 
hesitation or a precaution which evidently betrayed 
a stranger, and with the few connections they had, a 
stranger was surely an enemy — the one whom he 
expected. 

A ring of the door-bell, given by a firm hand, 


Conscience. 


165 


made him jump from his chair. He did not hesi- 
tate ; slowly, and with an air of indifference, he 
opened the door. 

He saw before him a man of about forty years, 
with a polite and shrewd face, dressed in a short 
coat, and wearing a fiat hat. 

“ M. Florentin Cormier V' 

“I am he.” 

And he asked him to come in. 

“ The judge desires to see you at his office.” 

Mme. Cormier came out of the kitchen in time 
to hear these few words, and if Florentin had not 
motioned to her to be silent, she would have be- 
trayed herself. The words on her lips were : 

“You came to arrest my son!” They would 
have escaped her, but she crushed them back. 

“ And can you tell me for what affair the judge 
summons me ? ” Florentin asked, steadying his 
voice. 

“ For the Caffie affair.” 

“ And at what hour should I present myself be- 
fore the judge ? ” 

“ Immediately.” 

“ But my son has not breakfasted ! ” Mme. Cor- 
mier exclaimed. “ At least, take something before 
going, my dear child.” 

“It is not worth while.” 

He made a sign to her that she should not insist. 
His throat was too tight to swallow a piece of bread, 
and it was important that he should not betray his 
emotion before this agent. 

“ I am ready,” he said. 


i66 


Conscience. 


Going to his mother he embraced her, but lightly, 
without effusion, as if he were only to be absent a 
short time. 

“ By and by.” 

She was distracted ; but, understanding that she 
would compromise her son if she yielded to her 
feelings, she controlled herself. 




XX. 

As it was a part that he played, Florentin said to 
himself that he would play it to. the best of his 
ability in entering into the skin of the person he 
wished to be, and this part was that of a witness. 

He had been Caffie’s clerk ; the justice would 
interrogate him about his old employer, and nothing 
would be more natural. It was that only, and 
nothing but that, which he could admit ; conse- 
quently, he should interest himself in the police 
investigations, and have the curiosity to learn how 
they stood. 

“ Have you advanced far in the Caffie affair ? ” 
he asked the agent as they walked along. 

“ I do not know,” the agent answered, who 
thought it prudent to be reserved. “ I know noth- 
ing naore than the newspapers tell.” 

On leaving his mother’s house, Florentin observed 
on the other side of the street a man who appeared 
to be stationed there ; at the end of several min- 
utes, on turning a corner, he saw that this man fol- 
lowed them at a certain distance. Then it was not 
a simple appearance before the judge, for such pre- 
cautions are not taken with a witness. 

When they reached the Place Clichy, the agent 
asked him if he would take a carriage, but he 


i68 


Conscience. 


declined. What good was it ? It was a useless 
expense. 

Then he saw the agent raise his hat, as if bowing 
to some one, but this bow was certainly not made 
to any one ; and immediately, the man who had 
followed them approached. The raising of the hat 
was a signal. As from the deserted quarters of the 
Batignolles they entered the crowd, they feared he 
might try to escape. The character of the arrest 
became accentuated. 

After the presentiments and fears that had tor- 
mented him during the last few days, this did not 
astonish him, but since they took these precautions 
with him, all was not yet decided. He must, then, 
defend himself to the utmost. Distracted before 
the danger came, he felt less weak now that he was 
in it. 

On arriving at the Palais de Justice he was intro- 
duced immediately into the judge’s office. But he 
did not attend to him at once ; he was questioning 
a woman, and Florentin examined him by stealth. 
He saw a man of elegant and easy figure, still 
young, with nothing solemn or imposing about him, 
having more the air of a boulevardier or of a sports- 
man than of a magistrate. 

While continuing his questioning, he also exam- 
ined Florentin, but with a rapid glance, without per- 
sistence, carelessly, and simply because his eyes fell 
upon him. Before a table a clerk was writing, and 
near the door two policemen waited, with the weary, 
empty faces of men whose minds are elsewhere. 

Soon the judge turned his head towards them. 


Conscience. 


169 


“ You may take away the accused.” 

Then, immediately addressing Florentin, he 
asked him his name, his Christian names, and his 
residence. 

‘‘ You have been the clerk of the agent of affairs, 
Caffie. Why did you leave him ? ” 

“Because my work was too heavy.” 

“ You are afraid of work ? ” 

“ No, when it is not too hard ; it was at M. 
Cafhe’s, and left me no time to work for myself. I 
was obliged to reach his office at eight o’clock in 
the morning, breakfast there, and did not leave until 
seven to dine with my mother at the Batignolles. I 
had an hour and a half for that ; at half-past eight 
I had to return, and stay until ten or half-past. In 
accepting this position I believed that I should be 
able to finish my education, interrupted by the 
death of my father, and to study law, and become 
something better than a miserable clerk of a busi- 
ness man. That was not possible with M. Caffie, 
so I left him, and this was the only reason why 
we separated.” 

“ Where have you been since ? ” 

This was a delicate question, and one that Flor- 
entin dreaded, for it might raise prejudices that 
nothing would destroy. However, he must reply, 
for what he would not tell himself, others would 
reveal ; an investigation on this point was too easy. 

“With another man of business, M. Savoureux, 
Rue de la Victoire, where I was not obliged to work 
in the evening. I stayed there about three months, 
and then went to America.” 


Conscience. 


170 


“ Why?” 

“ Because, when I began to study seriously, I 
found that my studies had been neglected too long 
to make it possible for me to take them up again. 
I had forgotten nearly all I had learned. I should, 
without doubt, fail in my examination, and I would 
only commence law too late. I left France for 
America, where I hoped to find a good situation.” 

“ How long since your return ? ” 

“Three weeks.” 

“ And you went to see Caffie ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ What for ? ” 

“To ask him for a recommendation to replace 
the one he gave me, which I had lost.” 

“ It was the day of the crime ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ At what time ? ” 

“ I reached his house about a quarter to three, 
and I left about half-past three.” 

“ Did he give you the certificate for which you 
asked ? ” 

“ Yes ; here it is.” 

And, taking it from his pocket, he presented it 
to the judge. It was a paper saying that, during 
the time that M. Florentin Cormier was his clerk, 
Caffie was entirely satisfied with him ; with his work, 
as with his accuracy and probity. 

“ And you did not return to him during the even- 
ing ? ” the judge asked. 

“ Why should I return ? I had obtained what I 
desired.” 


Conscience. 


171 


“Well, did you or did you not return ? ” 

“ I did not return to him.” 

“ Do you remember what you did on leaving 
Caffie’s house ? ” 

If Florentin had indulged in the smallest illusion 
about his appearance before the judge, the manner 
of conducting the interview would have destroyed 
it. It was not a witness who was being questioned, 
it was a culprit. He had not to enlighten the 
justice, he had to defend himself. 

“Perfectly,” he said. “It is not so long ago. On 
leaving the Rue Sainte-Anne, as I had nothing to 
do, I went down to the quays, and looked at the old 
books from the Pont Royale to the Institute ; but at 
this rnoment a heavy shower came on, and I re- 
turned to the Batignolles, where I remained with 
my mother.” 

“What time was it when you reached your 
mother’s house ? ” 

“ A few minutes after five.” 

“ Can you not say exactly ? ” 

“ About a quarter past five, a few minutes more 
or less.” 

“ And you did not go out again ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Did any one call at your mother’s after you 
arrived there ? ” 

“ No one. My sister came in at seven o’clock, as 
usual, when she returned from her lesson.” 

“ Before you went up to your rooms did you 
speak with any of the other lodgers ?” 

“ No.” 


172 


Conscience. 


There was a pause, and Florentin felt the judge’s 
eyes fixed on him witl^ an aggravating persistency. 
It seemed as if this look, which enveloped him 
from head to feet, wished to penetrate his inmost 
thoughts. 

“Another thing,” said the judge. “You did not 
lose a trousers’ button while you were with Caffie ? ” 

Florentin expected this question, and for some 
time he had considered what answer he should 
make to it. To deny was impossible. It would be 
easy to convict him of a fib, for the fact of the 
question being asked was sufficient to say there w'as 
proof that the button was his. He must, then, 
confess the truth, grave as it might be. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ and this is how ” 

He related in detail the story of the bundle of 
papers placed on the highest shelf of the cases, his 
slipping on the ladder, and the loss of the button, 
which he did not discover until he was in the street. 

The judge opened a drawer and took from it a 
small box, from which he took a button that he 
handed to Florentin. 

“ Is that it ? ” he asked. 

Florentin looked at it. 

“ It is difficult for me to answer,” he said, finally ; 

“ one button resembles another.” 

“ Not always.” 

“ In that case, it would be necessary for me to 
have observed the form of the one I lost, and I 
gave no attention to it. It seems to me that no ■ 
one knows exactly how, or of what, the buttons are 
made that they wear.” 


Conscience. 


173 


The judge examined him anew. 

“But are not the trousers that you wear to-day 
the same from which this button was torn ? ” 

“ It is the pair that I wore the day I went to see 
M. Caffie.” 

“ Then it is quite easy to compare the button 
that I show you with those on your trousers, and 
your answer becomes easy.” 

It was impossible to escape this verification. 

“ Unbutton your vest,” said the judge, “ and 
make your comparison with care — with all the care 
that you think wise. The question has some im- 
portance.” 

Florentin felt it only too much, the importance 
of this question, but as it was set before him, he 
could not but answer frankly. 

He unbuttoned his waistcoat, and compared the 
button with his. 

“ I believe that it is really the button that I lost,” 
he said. 

Although he endeavored not to betray his 
anguish, he felt that his voice trembled, and that 
it had a hoarse sound. Then he wished to explain 
this emotion. 

“ This is a truly terrible position for me,” he said. 

The judge did not reply. 

“ But because I lost a button at M. Caffie's, it 
does not follow that it was torn off in a struggle. ” 

“ You have your theory, and you will make the 
most of it, but this is not the place. I have only 
one more question to ask : By what button have 
you replaced the one you lost ? ” 


174 


Conscience. 


“ By the first one I came across.” 

“ Who sewed it on ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ Are you in the habit of sewing on your buttons 
yourself ? ” 

Although the judge did not press this question 
by his tone, nor by the form in which he made it, 
Florentin saw the strength of the accusation that 
his reply would make against him. 

Sometimes,” he said. 

‘‘ And yet, on returning home, you found your 
mother, you told me. Was there any reason why 
she could not sew this button on for you ? ” 

“ I did not ask her to do it.” 

“ But when she saw you sewing it, did she not 
take the needle from your hands ? ” 

“ She did not see me.” 

“ Why?” 

“ She was occupied preparing our dinner.” 

“ That is sufficient” 

“ I was in the entry of our apartment, where I 
have slept since my return ; my mother was in the 
kitchen.” 

‘‘Is there no communication between the kitchen 
and the entry ? ” 

“ The door was closed.” 

A flood of words rushed to his lips, to protest 
against the conclusions which seemed to follow 
these answers, but he kept them back. He saw 
himself caught in a net. and all his efforts to free 
himself only bound him more strongly. 

As he was asked no more questions it seemed to 


Conscience. 


^75 


him best to say nothing, and he was silent a long 
time, of the duration of which he was only vaguely 
conscious. The judge talked in a low tone, the 
recorder wrote rapidly, and he heard only a monot- 
onous murmur that interrupted the scratching of a 
pen on the paper. 

“ Your testimony will now be read to you,” the 
judge said. 

He wished to give all his attention to this read- 
ing, but he soon lost the thread of it. The impres- 
sion it made upon him, however, was that it faith- 
fully reproduced all that he had said, and he signed 
it. 

“ Now,” said the judge, “ my duty obliges me, in 
presence of the charges which emanate from your 
testimony, to deliver against you a manda depdtC 

Florentin received this blow without flinching. 

“ I know,” he said, “ that all the protestations I 
might make would have no effect at this moment ; 
I therefore spare you them. But I have a favor to 
ask of you ; it is to permit me to write to my 
mother and sister the news of my arrest — they love 
me tenderly. Oh, you shall read my letter! ” 

‘‘You may, sir.” 




XXI. 

After the departure of her son and the detec- 
tive, Mme. Cormier was prostrated. Her son! Her 
Florentin ! The poor child ! And she was sunk 
in despair. 

Had they not suffered enough ? Was this new 
proof necessary ? Why had their life been so 
unmercifully cruel ? Why had not Dr. Saniel let 
her die ? At least she would not have seen this 
last catastrophe, this disgrace ; her son accused of 
assassination, in prison, at the assizes ! 

Heretofore when she had yielded to her feelings 
and bewailed their sad lot, Phillis was at hand to 
cheer and caress her ; but now she was alone in 
her deserted apartment, no one to hear her, see her, 
nor scold. Why should she not abandon herself to 
tears ? She wept and trembled, but the moment 
arrived when, after having reached the extreme of 
despair, which showed her her son condemned as an 
assassin, and executed, she stopped and asked her- 
self if she had not gone too far. 

He would return ; certainly she might expect 
him. And she waited for him without breakfasting ; 
he would not like to sit down to the table all alone, 
the poor child. Besides, she was too profoundly 
overcome to eat. She arranged the fire with care, 
so that the haricot of mutton would keep warm, for 
it was his favorite dish. 


Conscience. 


177 


Minutes and hours passed and he did not return. 
Her anguish came back ; a witness would not be 
retained so long by the judge. Had they arrested 
him ? Then what would become of him ? 

She fell into a state of tears and despair, and 
longed for Phillis. Fortunately she would not be 
late to-day. Finally a quick, light step was heard 
on the landing, and as soon as she could, Mme. 
Cormier hastened to open the door, and was stunned 
on seeing the agitated face of her daughter. Evi- 
dently Phillis was surprised by the sudden opening 
of the door. 

“ You know all, then ? ” Mme. Cormier cried. 

Phillis put her arms about her, and drew her into 
the dining-room, where she made her sit down. 

“ Be calm,” she said. They will not keep him.” 

“ You know some way ? ” 

“ We will find a way. I promise you that they 
wall not keep him.” 

“ You are sure ? ” 

I promise you.” 

“ You give me life. But how did you know ? ” 

“ He wrote to me. The concierge gave me his 
letter, which hadr just come.” 

What does he say ? ” 

Mme. Cormier took the letter that Phillis handed 
her, but the paper shook so violently in her trem- 
bling hand that she could not read. 

“ Read it to me.” 

Phillis took it and read : 

“ Dear little Sister : After having listened to me, the 
judge retains me. Soften for mamma the pain of this blow. 

13 


Conscience. 


178 


Make her understand that they will soon acknowledge the 
falseness of this accusation ; and, on your part, try to make 
this falseness evident, while on mine, I will work to prove 
my innocence. 

“ Embrace poor mamma for me, and find in your tender- 
ness, strength, and love, some consolation for her ; mine will 
be to think that you are near her, dear little beloved sister. 

“ Florentin.” 

“ And it is this honest boy that they accuse of 
assassination ! ” cried Mme. Cormier, beginning to 
weep. 

It required several minutes for Phillis to quiet 
her a little. 

“We must think of him, mamma; we must not 
give up.” 

“You are going to do something, are you not, my 
little Phillis ? ” 

“ I am going to find Dr. Saniel.” 

“ He is a doctor, not a lawyer.” 

“ It is exactly as a doctor that he can save Flor- 
entin. He knows that Caffie was killed without a 
struggle between him and the assassin ; conse- 
quently without the wrenching off of a button. He 
will say it and prove it to the judge, and Florentin ’s 
innocence is evident. I am going to see him.” 

“ I beg of you, do not leave me alone too long.” 

“ I will come back immediately.” 

Phillis ran from the Batignolles to the Rue Louis- 
le-Grand. In answer to her ring, Joseph, who had 
returned to his place in the ante-room, opened the 
door, and as Saniel was alone, she went immediately 
to his office. 


Conscience. 


179 


“What is the matter ? ” he asked, on seeing her 
agitation. 

“ My brother is arrested.” 

“ Ah ! The poor boy ! ” 

What he had said to her on explaining that this 
arrest could not take place was sincere ; he believed 
it, and he more than believed it, he wished it. 
When he decided to kill Caffie he had not thought 
that the law would ever discover a criminal ; it 
would be a crime that would remain unpunished, as 
so many were, and no one would be disturbed. But 
now the law had found and arrested one who was 
the brother of the woman he loved. 

“ How was he arrested ? ” he asked, as much for 
the sake of knowing as to recover himself. 

She told what she knew, and read Florentin’s 
letter. 

“ He is a good boy, your brother,” he said, as if 
talking to himself. 

“ You will save him ?” 

“ How can I ? ” 

This cry escaped him without her understanding 
its weight ; without her divining the expression of 
anxious curiosity in his glance. 

“ To whom shall I address myself, if not to you ? 
Are you not everything to me ? My support, my 
guide, my counsel, my God ! ” 

She explained what she wished him to do. Once 
more an exclamation escaped Saniel. 

“ You wish me to go to the judge — me ? ” 

“ Who, better than you, can explain how things 
happened ? ” 


i8o 


Conscience. 


Saniel, who had recovered from his first feeling 
of surprise, did not flinch. Evidently she spoke 
with entire honesty, suspecting nothing, and it 
would be folly to look for more than she said. 

But I cannot present myself before a judge in 
such a way,” he said. “ It is he who sends for 
those he wants to see.” 

“ Why can you not go to his court, since you 
know things which will throw light upon it ? ” 

“ Is it truly easy to go before this court ? In 
going before it, I make myself the defender of your 
brother.” 

“That is exactly what I ask of you.” 

“ And in presenting myself as his defender, I take 
away the weight of my deposition, which would 
have more authority if it were that of a simple 
witness.” 

“ But when will you be asked for this deposition ? 
Think of Florentin’s sufferings during this time, of 
mamma’s, and of mine. He may lose his head ; he 
may kill himself. His spirit is not strong, nor is 
mamma’s. How will they bear all that the news- 
papers will publish ? ” 

Saniel hesitated a moment. 

“ Well, I will go,” he said. “ Not this evening, 
it is too late, but to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, dear Victor ! ” she exclaimed, pressing him 
in her arms, “ I knew that you would save him. We 
will owe you his life, as we owe you mamma’s, as I 
owe you happiness. Am I not right to say you are 
my God ? ” 

After she was gone he had a moment of repent- 


Conscience. 


i8i 


ance in which he regretted this weakness ; for it 
was a weakness, a stupid sentimentalism, unworthy 
of a sensible man, who should not permit himself to 
be thus touched and involved. Why should he go 
and invite danger when he could be quiet, without 
any one giving him a thought ? Was it not folly ? 
The law wanted a criminal. Public curiosity de- 
manded one. Why take away the one that they 
had ? If he succeeded, would they not look for 
another ? It was imprudence, and, to use the true 
word, madness. Now that he was no longer under 
the influence of Phillis’s beautiful, tearful eyes, he 
would not commit this imprudence. All the evening 
this idea strengthened, and when he went to bed his 
resolution was taken. He would not go to the 
judge. 

But on awakening, he was surprised to find that 
this resolution of the evening was not that of the 
morning, and that this dual personality, which had 
already struck him, asserted itself anew. It was 
at night that he resolved to kill Cafiie, and he com- 
mitted the deed in the evening. It was in the 
morning that he had abandoned the idea, as it was 
in the morning that he revoked the decision made 
the previous evening to not go to the rescue of this 
poor boy. Of what, then, was the vvill of man 
made, undulating like the sea, and variable as the 
wind, that he had the folly to believe his was firm ? 

At noon he went to the Palais de Justice and sent 
in his card to the judge, on which he wrote these 
words : “Regarding the Cafiie affair.” 

He was received almost immediately, and briefly 


i 82 


Conscience. 


explained how, according to his opinion, Caffie was 
killed quickly and suddenly by a firm and skilful 
hand, that of a killer by profession. 

“ That is the conclusion of your report,” the 
judge said. 

“ What I could not point out in my report, as I 
did not know of the finding of the button and the 
opinion it has led to, is that there was no struggle 
between the assassin and the victim, as is generally 
supposed.” 

And medically he demonstrated how this struggle 
was impossible. 

The judge listened attentively, without a word, 
without interruption. 

“ Do you know this young man ? ” he asked. 

“ I have seen him only once ; but I know his 
mother, who was my patient, and it is at her instiga- 
tion that I decided to make this explanation to 
you.” 

“ Without doubt, it has its value, but I must tell 
you that it tends in no way to destroy our hypoth- 
esis.” 

“ But if it has no foundation ? ” 

“ I must tell you that you are negative, doctor, 
and not suggestive. We have a criminal and you 
have not. Do you see one ? ” 

Saniel thought that the judge looked at him with 
a disagreeable persistency. 

“ No,” he said, sharply. 

Then rising, he said more calmly : 

“ That is not in my line.” 

He had nothing to do but to retire, which he 


Conscience. 


183 


did ; and on passing through the vestibule he said 
to himself that the magistrate was right. He 
believed that he held a criminal. Why should he 
let him go ? 

As for him, he had done what he could. 






PART SECOND. 

I. 

Saniel passed the first proofs of his two concours so 
brilliantly that the results of either were not doubt- 
ful. In delivering his thesis for the agregation^ he 
commanded the admiration of his audience ; by turns 
aggressive, severe, ironical, eloquent, he reduced his 
adversary to such an extremity that, overwhelmed, he 
was not able to reply. In his leoture at the hospital, 
his eloquence and his clear demonstration convinced 
the judges who were opposed to him that he was in 
the right. 

What could Caffie’s death weigh, placed in the 
balance with these results ? So little that it counted 
for nothing, and would have held no place in his 
thoughts if it had not been mixed in his mind with the 
accusation that would send Florentin to the assizes. 

Cleared of this fact, the death of the old man rarely 
crossed his mind. He had other things in his head, 
truly, than this memory which brought neither regret 
nor remorse ; and it was not at this moment, when he 
touched the end at which he aimed, that he would 
embarrass himself, or sadden his triumph, with Caffie. 

A little before the expiration of the two months, 
during which time the paste restante retained the letters 


Conscience. 


85 


containing the thirty thousand francs, he called for 
them, and re-addressed and mailed them to other 
post-offices. 

What did he want of this money, which was, in 
reality, a nuisance ? His habits remained the same, 
except that he no longer struggled with his creditors, 
and paid cash for everything. He had no desire to 
make any change in his former mode of living ; his 
ambition was otherwise and higher than in the small 
satisfactions, very small for him, that money gives. 

Days passed without a thought of Caffie, except in 
connection with Florentin. But Florentin, and above 
all Phillis, reminded him that the comfort he enjoyed 
he owed to Caffie’s death, and he was troubled accord- 

ingly- 

He did not believe that the investigations of the law 
would reach him now ; everything conspired to confirm 
him in his security. That which he arranged so labori- 
ously had succeeded according to his wish, and the only 
imprudence that he had committed, in a moment of aber- 
ration, seemed to not have been observed ; no one had 
noticed his presence in the cafe' opposite Caffie’s house, 
and no one was astonished at his pertinacity in remain- 
ing there at an hour so unusual. 

But it was not enough that he was safe ; he must 
prevent Florentin from being unjustly condemned for 
a crime of which he was innocent. It was a great deal 
that he should be imprisoned, that his sister should be 
in despair, and his mother ill from chagrin ; but if he 
should be sent to the scaffold or to the bagnio, it would 
be too much. In itself the death of Caffie was a small 
thing ; it became atrocious if it led to such an ending. 


i86 


Conscience. 


He did not wish this to happen, and he would do 
everything not only to prevent the condemnation, but 
to shorten the imprisonment. 

It was this sentiment that he obeyed in going to see 
the judge ; but the manner in which he was received, 
showing him that the law was not disposed to let its 
hypothesis be changed by a simple medical demonstra- 
tion, threw him into a state of uneasiness and per- 
plexity. 

Without doubt, any one else in his place would have 
Ibt things take their course, and since the law had a 
criminal with which it contented itself, would have 
done nothing to release him. While it followed its 
hypothesis to prove the criminality of the one it held, 
it would not look elsewhere ; when it had condemned 
him, all would be finished ; the Caffie affair would be 
buried, as Caffie himself was buried ; silence and obliv- 
ion would give him security. The crime punished, the 
conscience of the public satisfied, it would ask for no 
more, not even to know if the debt was paid by the 
one who really owed it ; it was paid, and that was sufii- 
cient. But he was not “ any one else,” and if he found 
the death of this old scamp legitimate, it was on the 
condition that Florentin did not pay for it, from whom 
he had not profited. 

Florentin must be released as soon as possible, and 
it was his duty to interest himself in his behalf — his 
imperative duty not only towards Phillis, but towards 
himself. 

He told Phillis that until Florentin came before the 
jury, he could do nothing, or almost nothing. When the 
time came, he would assert his authority, and speak- 


Conscience. 


187 


ing in the name of science, he would prove to the jury 
that the story of the button was an invention of the 
police, who were pushed to extremes, and would not 
bear examination ; l5ut until then the poor boy re- 
mained at Mazas, and however assured one might be 
at this moment of an acquittal, an immediate ordon- 
nance de non-lieu was of more value, if it could be 
obtained. 

For this the intervention and direction of a doctor 
were of little use ; it required that of an advocate. 

Whom should he have ? Phillis would have liked to 
apply to the most illustrious, to him who, by his talent, 
authority, and success, would win all his cases. But 
Saniel explained to her that workers of miracles were 
probably as difficult to find at the bar as in the medical 
profession, and that, if they did exist, they would 
expect a large fee. To tell the truth, he would have 
willingly given the thirty thousand francs in the poste 
restante., or a large part of this sum, to give Florentin 
his liberty ; but it would be imprudent to take out the 
bills at this moment, and he could not declare that he 
had thirty thousand francs, or even ten thousand. He 
decided with Phillis to consult Brigard. 

On a Wednesday he went to the parlor in the Rue 
Vaugirard, where he had not been since his experiment 
with Glady. As usual, he was received affectionately 
by Crozat, who scolded him for coming so rarely, and 
as usual also, in order not to disturb the discussion that 
was going on, he remained standing near the door. 

This evening the theme of the discourse was a phrase 
of Chateaubriand’s : “ The tiger kills and sleeps ; man 
kills and is sleepless.” On listening to the discussion, 


i88 


Conscience. 


Saniel said to himself that it was truly a pity not to be 
able to reply to all this rhetoric by a simple fact of 
personal experience. He had never slept so well, so 
tranquilly, as since Caffie’s death*, which relieved him 
from all the cares that in these last months had tor- 
mented and broken his sleep so much. 

At the end, Brigard concluded the discussion on 
saying that nothing better proved the power of the 
human conscience than this difference between man 
and beast. 

When they had all gone but Brigard, and Saniel was 
alone with him and Crozat, he ‘stated his desire. 

“ But is it the Caffie affair ? ” 

“ Exactly.” 

And he explained in detail the interest he felt in 
Elorentin, the son of one of his patients, and also the 
situation of this patient. 

Brigard strongly recommended Nougarede, and de- 
scribed his recent successes before a jury. Crozat 
concurred with Brigard, and advised Saniel to see 
Nougarede the day after to-morrow. 

“ In the morning, because after the Palais, Nougarede 
will be at his wedding, which, as you know, prevents 
him from coming here this evening.” 

“ What ! Nougarede married ? ” exclaimed Saniel, 
surprised that the favorite disciple gave this lie to the 
doctrine and examples of his master. 

“ My God, yes ! We must not be too hard on him. 
He submits to the fate of a special environment. With- 
out our knowledge, Nougarede, we may say it now, and 
ought to say it, was the happy lover of a charming 
young person, the daughter of one of our most distin- 


Conscience. 


189 


guished actresses, who was brought up in a fashionable 
convent. You see the situation. The result of this 
liaisoti was a child, a delicious little boy. It seemed 
quite natural that they should live en union litre., since 
they loved each other,* and not weaken by legal ties 
the strength of those that attached them to this child. 
But the mother is an actress, as I have told you, and 
wished her daughter to receive all the sacraments that 
the law and the church can confer. She managed 
so well that poor NougarMe yielded. He goes to the 
mayor, to the church ; he legitimizes the child, and 
he even accepts a dot of two hundred thousand francs. 
1 pity him, the unfortunate man ! But I confess that I 
have the weakness to not condemn him as he would 
deserve if he married in any other way.” 

Saniel was a little surprised at these points of re- 
semblance with the charming young person that Caffie 
had proposed to him. At the least, it was curious ; but 
if it were the same woman, he was not vexed to see 
that Nougarede had been less difficult than himself. 




II. 

On going to see Nougarede, Saniel vaguely fancied 
the lawyer would tell him that an acquittal was certain 
if Florentin passed to the assizes, and even that an or- 
donnance de non-lieu was probable. But his hope was 
not realized. 

“ The adventure of the button for you or me would 
not have the same gravity as for this boy ; we have no 
antecedents on which presumptions might be established, 
but he has. The forty-five francs which constitute 
an embezzlement for a salaried man will be, certainly, a 
starting point for the accusation ; one commences by 
a weakness and finishes by a crime. Do you not hear 
the advocate-general ? He will begin by presenting 
the portrait of the honest, laborious, exact, scrupulous 
clerk, content with a little, and getting satisfaction from 
his duties accomplished ; then, in opposition, he will 
pass to the clerk of to-day, as irregular in his work as 
in his conduct, full of desires, in a hurry to enjoy, dis- 
contented with everything and everybody, with others 
as with himself. And he will go on to speak of the 
embezzlement of the forty-five francs as the beginning 
of the crimes that led to the assassination. You may 
be sure if the affair goes to the assizes that you will hear 
these words and more, and I assure you that it will be 


Conscience. 


191 


difficult for us to destroy the impression that he will pro- 
duce on the jury. But I hope we shall succeed.” 

He had to give up the idea of obtaining the ordon- 
nance de non-lieu ^ and to tell himself that the affaire 
would come before the assizes ; but it does not follow 
that one is condemned for what one is accused of, 
and Saniel persisted in believing that Florentin would 
not be. Assuredly, the prison was hard for the poor 
boy, and the trial before the jury, with all the igno- 
miny that necessarily accompanies it, would be harder 
yet. But, after all, it would all disappear in the joy 
of acquittal ; when that time came, there would be 
found, surely, some ingenious idea, sympathy, effective 
support, to pay him for all that he would have suffered. 
Certainly, things would come to pass thus, and the 
acquittal would be carried with a high hand. 

He said this to himself again and again, and from the 
day when he put the affair in NougarMe’s hands, he 
often went to see him, to hear him repeat it. 

He cannot be condemned, can he ” 

One may always be cqndemned, even when one is 
innocent ; as one may die at any time, you know that, 
even with excellent health.” 

In one of these visits he met Mme. Nougarede, who 
had then been several days married, and on recogniz- 
ing in her the young virgin with a child, of whom 
Caffie showed him the portrait, he was strengthened in 
his idea that conscience, such as it was understood, 
was decidedly a strange weighing machine, which might 
be made to say whatever one chose. Of what good 
were these hypocrisies, and whom did they deceive ? 

Although he had told Phillis repeatedly that an 


192 


Conscience. 


acquittal was certain, and that he had promised her he 
would do all he could for Florentin — which he really 
did — she did not give entirely into his hands, or into 
NougarMe’s, the task of defending her brother, but 
wwked with them in his defence. 

Nougarede believed that the delay in bringing the 
affair before the assizes was caused by the attempts to 
learn if, during his residence in America, Florentin had 
not worked in some large meat-shop or sheep-fold, where 
he would have learned to use a butcher knife, which 
was the chief point for the accusation. Phillis wrote to 
the various towns where Florentin had lived, and to tell 
the truth, he had worked at La Plata for six months 
as accountant in a large sheep-fold, but never slaugh- 
tered the sheep. 

When she received a letter, she carried it immediately 
to Saniel, and then to Nougarede ; and, at the same 
time, on all sides in Paris, among those who had held 
relations with her brother, she sought for testimony 
that should prove to the jury that he could not be the 
man that his accusers believed him. It was thus that, 
all alone, without other means of action than those 
which she found in her fraternal tenderness and brav- 
ery, she organized an investigation parallel to that of 
the law, which, on the day of judgment, would carry a 
certain weight, it seemed, with the conviction of the 
jury, showing them what had been the true life of this 
irregular and debauched man, capable of anything to 
glut his appetite and satisfy his desires. 

Each time that she obtained a favorable deposition, 
she ran to Saniel to tell him, and then together they 
repeated that a conviction was impossible. 


Conscience. 


193 


“You are sure, are you not ?” 

“ Have I not always told you so ? ” 

He had also said that Florentin could not be 
arrested, basing the accusation on the torn button, and 
he had said that certainly an ordonnance de non-lieu 
would be given by the judge ; - but they wished to 
remember neither the one nor the other. 

Things had reached this state, when one Saturday 
evening Phillis arrived at Saniel’s, radiant. 

As soon as the door opened she exclaimed : 

“ He is saved ! ” 

“An ordonnance de non-lieu V' 

“ No ; but now it is of little importance. We can go 
to the assizes.” 

She breathed a sigh which showed how great were her 
fears, in spite of the confidence she expressed when she 
repeated that conviction was impossible. 

He left his desk, and going towards her, took her in 
his arms, and made her sit down beside him on the 
divan. 

“ You will see that I do not let myself be carried away 
by an illusion, and that, as I tell you, he is saved, really 
saved. You know that an illustrated paper has pub- 
lished his portrait ? ” 

“I do not read illustrated papers.” 

“You could have seen them at the kiosks where they 
are displayed. It is there that I saw them yesterday 
morning when I went out, and I was petrified, red with 
shame, distracted, not knowing where to hide myself. 

‘ Florentin Cormier, the assassin of the Rue Sainte- 
Anne.’ Is it not infamous that an innocent person 
should be thus dishonored ? This was what I said to 


13 


194 


Conscience. 


myself. Where did the paper get the photograph ? 
They came to ask us for one, but you can imagine how 
I treated them, not knowing how anything good for us 
would result from such a disgrace.” 

“ And what is the result ? ” 

“ The proof that it is not Florentin who was with 
Caffie at the moment when the assassination took place. 
All day yesterday and all this morning I was filled with 
the feeling of disgrace that followed me, when at three 
o’clock I received this little note from the concierge of 
the Rue Sainte-Anne.” 

She took from her pocket a piece of paper folded in 
the form of a letter, which she handed to Saniel. 

“ Mademoiselle ; If you will pass through the Rue Sainte- 
Anne, I have something to tell you that will give you a great deal 
of pleasure, I believe. 

“ I am your servant, 

“ Widow Anajs Bouchu.” 

“You know the lame old concierge has never been 
willing to admit that my brother could be guilty. Flor- 
entin was polite and kind to her during his stay with 
Caffie, and she is grateful. Very often she has said to 
me that she is certain the guilty one would be found, 
and that when it was announced I must tell her. Instead 
of my telling her the good news, she has written to me. 
You may be sure I hurried to the Rue Sainte-Anne, 
expecting to hear something favorable, but we have a 
proof. When I arrived, the old woman took both of 
my hands, and told me that she would conduct me 
immediately to a lady who sawCaffie’s assassin.” 

“ Saw him ! ” exclaimed Saniel, struck by a blow that 
shook him from head to foot. 



AFTER HAVING READ ALL DAY, SHE REFLECTED AND DREAMED ABOUT 
HER BOOK WHILE LISTLESSLY WATCHING THE COMING OF THE 
TWTLIGHT. 


A i95 







Co7iscience. 


195 


“ She saw him perfectly, as I tell you. She added 
that this lady was the proprietor of the house, and that 
she lived in the second wing of the building, on the 
second story on the court, just opposite to Cafhe’s 
office. This lady, who is called Mme. Dammauville, 
the widow of a lawyer, is afflicted with paralysis, and I 
believe has not left her room for a year. The concierge 
explained this to me while crossing the court and 
mounting the stairs, but would say no more.” 

If Phillis had been able to observe Saniel, she would 
have seen him pale to such an extent that his lips 
were as white as his cheeks ; but she was completely 
absorbed in what she was saying. 

“ A servant conducted us to Mme. Dammauville, 
whom I found in a small bed near a window, and the 
concierge told her who I was. She received me kindly, 
and after having made me sit down in front of her, she 
told me that hearing from her concierge that I was 
exerting myself in my brother’s behalf, she had some- 
thing to tell me which would demonstrate that Caffie’s 
assassin was not the man whom the law had arrested 
and detained. The evening of the assassination she 
was in this same room, lying on this same bed, before 
this same window, and after having read all day, she 
reflected and dreamed about her book, while listlessly 
watching the coming of twilight in the court, that 
already obscured everything in its shadow. Mechan- 
ically she had fixed her eyes on the window of Caffie’s 
office opposite. Suddenly she saw a tall man, whom 
she took for an upholsterer, approach the window, and 
try to draw the curtains. Then Caffie rose, and taking 
the lamp, he came forward in such a way that the light 


196 


Conscience. 


fell full on the face of this upholsterer. You under- 
stand, do you not } ” 

“ Yes,” murmured Saniel. 

She saw him then plainly enough to remember him, 
and not to confound him with another. Tall, with long 
hair, a curled blond beard, and dressed like a gentle- 
man, not like a poor man. The curtains were drawn. 
It was then fifteen or twenty minutes after five. And 
it was at this same moment that Caffie was butchered 
by this false upholsterer, who evidently had only drawn 
the curtains so that he might kill Caffie in security, and 
not imagining that some one should see him doing a 
deed that denounced him as the assassin as surely as if 
he had been surprised with the knife in his hand. On 
reading the description of Florentin in the newspapers 
when he was arrested, Mme. Dammauville believed 
the criminal had been found — a tall man, with long 
hair and curled beard. There are some points of re- 
semblance, but in the portrait published in the illus- 
trated paper that she received, she did not recognize 
the man who drew the curtains, and she is certain that 
the judge is deceived. You see that Florentin is 
saved ! ” 




III. 

As he did not reply to this cry of triumph, she looked 
at him in surprise. She saw his face, pale, agitated, 
under the shock evidently of a violent emotion that she 
could not explain to herself. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she asked with uneasiness. 

“Nothing,” he answered brutally. 

“ You do not wish to weaken my hope ? ” she said, 
not imagining that he could not think of this hope and 
of Florentin. This was a path to lead him out of his 
confusion. In following it he would have time to 
recover himself. 

“ It is true,” he said. 

“ You do not think, then, that what Mme. Dammau- 
ville saw proves Florentin’s innocence ? ” 

“ Would what maybe a proof for Mme. Dammauville, 
for you, and for me, be one in the eyes of the law ? ” 

“ However* ” 

“ I saw you so joyful that I did not dare to interrupt 
you.” 

“Then you believe that this testimony is without 
value,” she murmured, feeling crushed. 

“ I do not say that. We must reflect, weigh the 
pro and co7i^ compass the situation from divers points 
of view ; that is what I try to do, which is the cause of 
my preoccupation that astonishes you.” 


198 


Conscience. 


“ Say that it crushes me ; I let myself be carried 
away.” 

“ You need not be crushed or carried away. Cer- 
tainly, what this lady told you forms a considerable 
piece of work ” 

“ Does it not ? ” 

“ Without any doubt. But in order that the testi- 
mony she gives may be of great consequence, the wit- 
ness must be worthy of trust.” 

“ Do you believe this lady could have invented such 
a story ? ” 

“ I do not say that ; but before all, it is necessary to 
know who she is.” 

“The widow of an attorney.” 

“ The widow of an attorney and land-owner. Evi- 
dently this constitutes a social status that merits con- 
sideration from the law ; but the moral state, what is it ? 
You say that she is paralyzed ? ” 

“ She has been so a little more than a year.” 

“ Of what paralysis ? That is a vague word for us 
others. There are paralyses that affect the sight; others 
that affect the mind. Is it one of these with which this 
lady is afflicted, or one of the others, which permitted 
her to really see, the evening of the assassination, that 
which she relates, and which leaves her mental faculties 
in a sane condition ? Before everything, it is important 
to know this.” 

Phillis was prostrated. 

“ I had not thought of all that,” she murmured. 

“ It is very natural that you had not ; but I am a 
doctor, and while you talked it was the doctor who 
listened.” 


Conscience. 


199 


“ It is true, it is true,” she repeated. I only saw 
Florentin.” 

“ In your place I would have seen, like you, only my 
brother, and I would have been carried away by hope. 
But I am not in your place. It is by your voice that 
this woman speaks, whom I do not know, and against 
whom I must be on my guard, for the sole reason that 
it is a paralytic who has told this story.” 

She could not restrain the tears that came to her eyes, 
and she let them flow silently, finding nothing to reply. 

“ I am sorry to pain you,” he said. 

“ I saw only Florentin’s liberty.” 

“ I do not say that this testimony of Mme. Dammau- 
ville will not influence the judge, and, above all, the 
jury; but I must warn you that you will expose your- 
self to a terrible deception if you believe that her testi- 
mony alone will give your brother liberty. It is not on 
a testimony of this kind or of this quality that the law 
decides ; better than we, it knows to what illusions peo- 
ple can lend themselves when it is the question of a 
crime that absorbs and excites the public curiosity. 
There are some witnesses who, with the best faith in the 
world, believe they have seen the most extraordinary 
things which only existed in their imaginations ; and 
there are people who accuse themselves rather than say 
nothing.” 

He heaped words on words, as if, in trying to con- 
vince Phillis, he might hope to convince himself ; but 
when the sound of his words faded, he was obliged to 
declare to himself that, whatever the paralysis of this 
woman might be, it had not, in this instance, produced 
either defect of sight or of mind. She had seen. 


200 


Conscience. 


indeed, the tall man with long hair and curled beard, 
dressed like a gentleman, who was not Florentin. When 
she related the story of the lamp and the curtain cords, 
she knew what she was saying. 

In his first alarm he had been very near betraying 
himself. Without doubt he should have told himself 
that this incident of the curtains might prove a trap ; 
but all passed so rapidly that he never imagined that, 
exactly at the moment when Caffie raised the lamp to 
give him light, there was a woman opposite looking at 
him, and who saw him so plainly that she had not for- 
gotten him. He thought to use all precautions on his 
side in drawing the curtains, when, on the contrary, he 
would have done better had he left them undrawn. 
Without doubt the widow of the attorney would have 
been a witness of a part of the scene, but in the shadow 
she would not have distinguished his features as she was 
able to do when he placed himself before the window, 
under the light. 'But this idea did not enter his mind, 
and, to save himself from an immediate danger, he 
threw himself into another which, although uncertain, 
was not less grave. 

Little by little Phillis recovered herself, and the hope 
that Mme. Dammauville put into her heart, moment- 
arily crushed by Saniel’s remarks, sprang up again. 

“ Is it not possible that Mme. Dammauville really 
saw what she relates ? ” 

“Without. any doubt ; and there are even probabil- 
ities that it is so, since the man who drew the curtains 
was not your brother, as we know. Unfortunately, it is 
not ourselves who must be convinced, since we are con- 
vinced in advance. It is those who, in advance also, 


Conscience. 


2or 


have one whom they will not give up unless he is torn 
from them by force.” 

“ But if Mme. Dammauville saw clearly.? ” 

“What must be learned before everything is, if 
she is in a state to see clearly ; I have said nothing 
else.” 

“ A doctor would surely know on examining her ? ” 

“ Without doubt.” 

“ If you were this doctor ? ” 

“ I ! ” 

It was a cry rather than an exclamation. She wished 
that he should present himself before this woman ; but 
in that case she would recognize him. 

Once more, under the pain of betraying his emotion, 
he must recover from this first impulse. 

“ But how can you wish me to go and examine this 
woman whom I do not know, and who does not know 
me ? You know very well that patients choose their 
doctors, and not doctors their patients.” 

“ If she sent for you ? ” 

“ By what right ? ” 

“ By what I shall learn on making ihe concierge talk, 
could you not recognize her kind of paralysis without 
seeing her ? ” 

“ That would be a little vague. However, I will do 
the best I can. Try to learn not only what concerns 
her illness, but all that relates to her — what her position 
is, who’ are her relations, which is important for a wit- 
ness who overawes as much by what he is as by what 
he says. You understand that a deposition that 
destroys the whole plan of the prosecution will be 
severely disputed, and will only be accepted if Mme. 


202 


Conscience. 


^ammauville has by her character and position a suffi- 
cient authority to break down all opposition.” 

“ I will also try to learn who is her doctor. You may 
know him. What he would tell you would be worth 
more than all the details that I could bring you.” 

“ We would be immediately decided on the paralysis, 
and we should see what credit we could accord this 
woman’s words.” 

While listening to Phillis and talking himself, he had 
time to compass the situation that this thunderbolt 
created for him. Evidently, the first thing to do was 
to prevent a suspicion from arising in Phillis’s mind, 
and it was to this that he applied himself on explaining 
the different kinds of paralysis. He knew her well 
enough to know that he had succeeded. But what 
would she do now ? How did she intend to make use of 
Mme. Dammauville’s declaration ? Had she spoken of 
it to any one besides himself ? Was it her intention to 
go to Nougarede and tell him what she had learned ? 
All that must be made clear, and as soon as possible. 
She must do nothing without his knowledge and 
approval. The circumstances were critical enough, 
without his letting accident become the master to direct 
them and conduct them blindly. 

“ When did you see Mme. Dammauville ? ” he asked. 

“ Just this minute.” 

“And now, what do you wish to do ? ” 

“ I think that I ought to tell M. Nougarede.” 

“ Evidently, whatever the value of Mm’e. Dammau- 
ville's declaration, he should know it ; he will appraise 
it. Only, as it is well to explain to him what may 
vitiate this testimony, if you wish, I will go to see him.” 


Co7iscience. 


203 


“ Certainly I wish it, and I thank you.” 

“ In the meantime, return to your mother and tell 
her what you have learned ; but, that she may not yield 
to an exaggerated hope, tell her, also, that if there are 
chances, and great ones, in favor of your brother, on 
the other side there are some that are unfavorable. 
To-morrow or this evening you will return to the Rue 
Sainte-Anne and begin your inquiries of the concierge. 
If the old woman tells you nothing interesting, you 
must go to Mme. Dammauville, and invent some reason 
for seeing her. Make her talk, and you will notice if 
her ideas are consecutive, and examine her face and 
eyes. Above all, neglect nothing that appears to you 
characteristic. Having taken care of your mother, you 
know almost as well as a doctor the symptoms of 
myelitis, and you could see instantly if Mme. Dammau- 
ville has them.” 

“ If I dared ! ” she said timidly, after a short hesi- 
tation. 

“What ?” 

“ I would ask you to come with me to the concierge 
immediately.” 

“ You think of such a thing ! ” he exclaimed. 

Since the evening when he had testified to the death 
of Caffie, he had not returned to the Rue Sainte-Anne ; 
and it was not when the description given by Mme. 
Dammauville was, doubtless, already spread in the 
quarter, that he was going to commit the imprudence 
of showing himself. But he must explain this ex- 
clamation. 

“ How can you expect a doctor to give himself up to 
such an investigation ? On your part it is quite natural ; 


204 


Conscience. 


on mine it would be unheard of and ridiculous ; add that 
it would be dangerous. You must conciliate Mme. 
Dammauville, and this would be truly a stupidity that 
would give her a pretext for thinking that you are trying 
to find out whether she is, or is not, in her right mind.” 

That is true,” she said. “ I had not thought of that. 
I said to myself, that, while I could only listen to what 
the concierge would tell me, you would know how to 
question her in a way that would lead her to say what 
you want to learn.” 

“ I hope that your investigation will tell me. In any 
case, let us offend in nothing. If to-morrow you bring 
me only insignificant details, we will consider what to 
do. In the meantime, return to the concierge this even- 
ing and question her. If it is possible, see Mme. 
Dammauville, and do not go home until after having 
obtained some news on this subject that is of such im- 
portance to us. And I will go to see Nougarede.” 



I 



IV. 

It was not to falsify Phillis’s story that Saniel insisted 
on going to see Nougarede. What good would it do ? 
That would be a blunder which sooner or later would 
show itself, and in that case would turn against him. 
He would have liked, with the authority of a physician, 
io explain that this testimony of a paralytic could have 
no more importance than that of a crazy woman. 

But at the first words of an explanation Nougarede 
stopped him. 

“ What you say is very possible, my dear friend ; but 
I shall make you see that it is not for us to raise objec- 
tions of this kind. Here is a testimony that may save 
our client ; let us accept it, such as it is, and from 
whence it comes. It is the business of the prosecution 
to prove that our witness could not see what she relates 
that she saw, or that her mental condition does not per- 
mit her to know what she saw ; and do not be afraid, 
investigation will not be lacking. Do not let us even 
give a hint from our side ; that would be stupid. ” 

This, certainly, was not what Saniel wished ; only 
he believed it a duty, in his quality of physician, to indi- 
cate some rocks against which they might strike them- 
selves. 

“ Our duty,” continued the advocate, ‘‘ is, therefore, 
to manage in a way to escape them ; and this is how I 
understand the rdle of this really providential witness, 


2o6 


Conscience. 


if it is possible to make her undertake it. Since it has 
occurred to you — you who wish the acquittal of this poor 
boy — that the testimony of Mme. Dammauville may be 
vitiated by the simple fact that it comes from a sick 
woman, it is incontestable, is it not, that this same idea 
will occur to those who wish for his conviction ? This 
testimony should be irrefutable ; it should be presented 
in such a way that no one could raise anything against 
it, so that it would compel the acquittal in the same 
moment that it is presented. It was between a quarter 
past and half past five o’clock that Caffie was assassin- 
ated ; at exactly a quarter past five, a w'oman of respect- 
able position, and whose intellectual as well as physical 
faculties render her worthy of being believed, saw in 
Caffie’s office a man with whom it is materially impos- 
sible to confound Florentin Cormier, draw the curtains 
of the window, and thus prepare for the crime. She 
would make her deposition in these conditions, and in 
these terms, and the affair would be finished. There 
would not be a judge, after this confrontation, who 
would send Florentin Cormier before the assizes, and, 
assuredly, there would not be two voices in the jury for 
conviction. But things will not happen in this way. 
Without doubt, Mme. Dammauville bears a name that 
is worth something ; her husband was an estimable 
attorney, a brother of the one who was notary at Paris.” 

Have you ever had any business with her? ” 

“ Never. I tell you what is well known to every one, 
morally she is irreproachable. But is she the same 
physically and mentally ? Not at all, unfortunately. If 
a physician can be found who will declare that her 
paralysis does not give her aberrations or hallucinar 


Conscience. 


207 


tions, another one will be found who will contest these 
opinions, and who will come to an opposite conclusion. 
So much for the witness herself ; now for the testimony. 
This testimony does not say that the man who drew the 
curtains at a quarter past five was built in such a way 
that it is materially impossible to confound him with 
Florentin Cormier, because he was small or hunch- 
backed or bald, or dressed like a workman ; while 
Florentin is tall, straight, with long hair and beard, and 
dressed like a gentleman. It says, simply, that the man 
who drew the curtains was tall, with long hair, and 
curled blond beard, and dressed like a gentleman. But 
this description is exactly Florentin Cormier’s, as it is 
yours ” 

“ Mine ! ” Saniel exclaimed. 

“Yours, as well as that of many others. And it is 
this, unfortunately for us, which destroys the irrefuta- 
■ bility that we must have. How is it certain that this tall 
man, with long hair and curled beard, is not Florentin 
Cormier, since these are his chief characteristics ? And 
it was at night, at a distance of twelve or fifteen metres, 
through a window, whose panes were obscured by the 
dust of papers and the mist, that this sick woman whose 
eyes are affected, whose mind is weakened by suffering, 
was able in a very short space of time, when she had 
no interest to imprint upon her memory what she saw, to 
grasp certain signs, that she recalled yesterday strongly 
enough to declare that the man who drew the curtains 
was not Florentin Cormier, against whom so many 
charges have accumulated from various sides, and who 
has only this testimony in his favor — every sensible per- 
son could not but find it suspicious ! ” 


2o8 


Conscience. 


“But it is true,” Saniel said, happy to lend himself to 
this view of the matter, which was his own. 

“ What makes the truth of a thing, my dear, is the 
manner of presenting it ; let us change this manner and 
we falsify it. To arrive at the conclusion which made 
you say ‘ It is true,’ I am on the side of the idea that 
from to-morrow Mme. Dammauville’s story should be 
known to the law, that the brave lady should be heard 
before the prosecution, and that time should be allowed 
to examine this testimony that you suspect. Now let 
us look at it from the opposite point. Mme. Dammau- 
ville’s story is not known to the law, or, if something 
transpires, we will arrange that this something is so 
vague that the prosecution will attach but little impor- 
tance to it. And this is possible if we do not base a new 
defence on this testimony. We arrive at the judgment, 
and when the prosecution has listened to its witnesses 
which have overwhelmed us — the agent of affairs 
Savoureux, the tailor Valerius, etc. — it is Mme. Dam- 
mauville’s turn. She simply relates what she saw, and 
declares that the man who is on the prisoner’s bench is 
not the same who drew the curtains at a quarter past 
five. Do you see the coup de thmt?'e? The prosecu- 
tion had not foreseen it ; it had not inquired into the 
health of the witness ; the physician would not be 
there to quote the defects of sight or reason ; very prob- 
ably it would not think of the dusty window-panes, 
or of the distance. And all the opposing arguments 
that would be properly arranged if there were time, 
would be lacking, and we would carry the acquittal 
with a high hand.” 

Arranged thus, things were too favorable for Saniel 


Conscience. 


209 


for him not to receive with a sentiment of relief, this 
combination which brought Fiorentin’s acquittal more 
surely, it seemed to him, than all that they had arranged 
for his defence up to this day. However, an objection 
occurred to him, which he communicated to Nougarede 
immediately. 

“Would one wish to admit that Mme. Dammauville 
had kept silent on so grave a matter, and waited for 
an audience to reveal it ? ” 

“ This silence she kept until yesterday ; why should 
she not keep it a few days longer? It is evident that 
if she had not related what she saw, it is because she 
had reasons for being silent. It is probable that, being 
ill, she did not wish to expose herself to the annoyances 
and fatigue of an investigation ; and in her eyes her 
deposition was not of great importance. What should 
she have revealed to the prosecution ? That the man 
who committed the crime was tall, with a curled blond 
beard ? This man the law held, or it held one the 
description of whom answered to this, which to Mme. 
Dammauville was the same thing. She did not need, 
therefore, to call the police or the judge to tell them 
these insignificant things for her own comfort ; and, 
also, because she believed that she had nothing interest- 
ing to say, she did not speak. It was when accident 
brought to her notice the portrait of the accused, she 
recognized that the law had not the real criminal, and 
then she broke the silence. The moment when she 
first saw this portrait is not stated precisely ; I under- 
take to arrange that. The difficulty is not there.” 

“ Where do you see it ? ” 

“ In this : Mme. Dammauville may have already told 


14 


210 


Conscience. 


her story to so many persons that it is already public 
property, where the prosecution has picked it up. In 
that case there will be no coup de tJiMtre. She will be 
questioned, her deposition examined, and we will have 
only a suspected testimony. The first thing to do, then, 
is to know how far this story has spread, and if there 
is yet time to prevent it from spreading farther.” 

“That is not easy, it seems- to me.” 

“ I believe that Mile. Phillis can do it. She is a 
brave girl, that nothing dejects or disconcerts, and 
which is the living proof that we are only valued 
according to the force and versatility of the inner 
consciousness. For the rest, I need not sound her 
praises, since you know her better than I ; and what I 
say has no other object but to explain the confidence 
that I place in her. As I cannot interfere myself, I 
think there is no better person than she to act on 
Mme. Dammauville, without disturbing or wounding 
her, and to bring about the result that we desire. I am 
sure that she has already won over Mme. Dammauville, 
and that she will be listened to with sympathy.” 

“ Do you wish me to write to her to come to see you 
to-morrow ? ” 

“ No ; it would be better for you to see her this 
evening, if possible.” 

“ I shall go to the Batignolles when I leave you.” 

“ She will enter into her part perfectly, I am certain, 
and she will succeed, I hope.” 

“ It seems to me that your combination rests, above 
all, on the coup de theatre of the non-recognition of 
Florentin by Mme. Dammauville. How will you bring 
this paralytic to court ? ” 


Conscience. 


21 


“ I depend upon you.” 

“ And how ? ” 

“You will examine her.” 

“ I shall have to go to her house ! ” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Because I am not her doctor.” 

“ You will become so.” 

“ It is impossible.” 

“ I do not find it at all impossible that you should be 
called in consultation. I have not forgotten that your 
thesis was on the paralyses due to the affection of the 
spinal cord, and it was remarkable enough for us to 
discuss it in our parlotte of the Rue de Vaugirard. You 
have, therefore, authority in the matter.” 

“ It is not on account of having written several 
works on the pathological anatomy of medullary lesions, 
and especially on the alterations of the spinal ganglia, 
that one acquires authority in a question so extended 
and so delicate.” 

“ Do not be too modest, dear friend. I have had, 
lately, to consult my Dictionary of Medicine, and at 
each page your work was quoted. And, besides, the 
way in which you passed your examinations made you 
famous. Every one talks of you. It is, therefore, not 
impossible that Mile. Phillis, relating that her mother 
was cured of a similar paralysis, will give Mme. Dam- 
mauville the idea of consulting you, and her physician 
will send for you.” 

“ You will not do that ? ” 

“ And why should I not do it ? ” 

They looked at each other a moment in silence, and 
Saniel turned his eyes away. 


212 


Coftscience. 


“ I detest nothing so much as to appear to put 
myself forward.” 

In this case it is no matter what you detest or 
like. The question is to save this unfortunate young 
man whom you know to be innocent; and you can do 
a kind deed and aid us. You examine Mine. Dam- 
mauville ; you see with which paralysis she is afflicted, 
and consequently, what exceptions may be taken at her 
testimony. At the same time, you see if you can cure 
her, or, at least, put her in a state to go to court.” 

“ And if it is proved that she cannot leave her bed ? ” 
“In that case I shall change my order of battle, and 
that is why it is of capital importance — you know that 
that is the word — that we should be warned before- 
hand.” 

“ You will make the judge receive her deposition ? ” 
“ In any case. But I shall make her write a letter 
that I shall read at the desired moment, and I shall 
call upon her physician to explain that he would not 
permit his patient to come to court. Without doubt, 
the effect would not be what I desire, but, anyhow, we 
should have one.” 




V. 

After Phillis, NougarMe also wished him to see 
Mme. Dammauville, and this coincidence was not the 
least danger of the situation that opened before him. 

If he saw her, the chances were that she would recog- 
nize in him the man who drew the curtains ; for, if he 
was able to speak to Phillis and Nougarede of an affec- 
tion of the eyes or of the mind, he did not believe in 
these affections, which for him were only makeshifts. 

When he arrived at Mme. Cormier’s, Phillis had not 
returned, and he was obliged to explain to the uneasy 
mother why her daughter was late. 

It was a delirium of joy, before which he felt embar- 
rassed. How should he break the hope of this unhappy 
mother ? 

What he had said to Phillis and to Nougarede he 
repeated to her. 

“ But it is possible, also, for paralytics to enjoy all 
their faculties ! ” Mme. Cormier exclaimed, with a decis- 
ion that was not in accordance with her habit or with 
her character. 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ Am I not an example ? ” 

“ Without doubt.” 

Then Florentin will be saved.” 


214 


Conscience, 


“ This is what we hope. I only caution you against 
an excess of joy by an excess of prudence. Neverthe- 
less, it is probable that Mile. Phillis will settle this for 
us when she returns.” 

“ Perhaps it would have been better if you had 
gone to the Rue Sainte-Anne. You would have found 
her.” 

There was, then, a universal mania to send him to 
the Rue Sainte-Anne ! 

They waited, but the conversation was difficult and 
slow between them. It was neither of Phillis nor of 
Florentin that Saniel thought ; it was of himself and 
of his own fears ; on her side, Mme. Cormier’s thoughts 
ran to Phillis. Then there were long silences that 
Mme. Cormier interrupted by going to the kitchen to 
look after her dinner, that had been ready since two 
o’clock. 

Not knowing what to say or do in the presence of 
Saniel’s sombre face and preoccupation, which she could 
not explain, she asked him if he had dined. 

“ Not yet.” 

“ If you will accept a plate of soup, I have some of 
yesterday’s bouillon^ that Phillis did not find bad.” 

But he did not accept, which pained Mme. Cormier. 
For a long time Saniel had been a sort of god to her, 
and since he had shown so much zeal regarding Floren- 
tin, the culte was become more fervent. 

At last Phillis’s step was heard. 

“ What ! You came to tell mamma ! ” she exclaimed, 
on seeing Saniel. 

Ordinarily Mme. Cormier listened to her respectfully, 
but now she interrupted her. 


Conscience. 


215 


And Mme. Dammauville ? ” she asked. 

“ Mme. Dammauville has excellent eyes. She is a 
woman of intellect, who, without the assistance of any 
business man, manages her fortune.’’ 

Overcome, Mme. Cormier fell into a chair. 

“ Oh, the poor child ! ” she murmured. 

Exclamations of joy- escaped •her which contained 
but little sense. 

“ It is as I thought,” Saniel said ; “but it would be 
imprudent to abandon ourselves to hopes to-day that 
to-morrow may destroy.” 

While he spoke he escaped, at least, from the embar- 
rassment of his position and from the examination of 
Phillis. 

“ What did M. Nougarede say ? ” she asked. 

“ I will explain to you presently. Begin by telling us 
what you have learned from Mme. Dammauville. It is 
her condition that will decide our course, at least that 
which Nougarede counsels us to adopt.” 

“When the concierge saw me return,” Phillis began, 
“ she showed a certain surprise ; but she is a good 
woman, who is easily tamed, and I had not much trou- 
ble in making her tell me all that she knows of Mme. 
Dammauville. It is three years since Mme. Dammau- 
ville became a widow without children. She is about 
forty years of age, and since her widowhood has lived 
in her house in the Rue Sainte-Anne. Until last year 
she was not ill, but she went every year to the springs at 
Lamoulon. It is a year since she was taken with pains 
that were thought to be rheumatic, following which, par- 
alysis attacked her and confined her to her bed. She 
suffers so much sometimes, that she cries, but these are 


2i6 


Conscience. 


spasms that do not last. In the intervals she lives the 
ordinary life, except that she does not get up. She 
reads a great deal, receives her friends, her sister-in-law 
— widow of a notary, her nephews and nieces, and one 
of the vicars of the parish, for she is very charitable. 
Her eyes are excellent. She has never had delirium 
or hallucinations. She is very reserved, detests gos- 
sip, and above everything seeks to live quietly. The 
assassination of Caffie exasperated her ; she would let 
no one speak to her of him, and she spoke of it to no 
one. She even said that if she were in a condition to 
leave her house, she would sell it, so that she would 
never hear the name of Caffie.” 

How did she speak of the portrait and of the man 
she saw in Caffie’s office ? ” Saniel asked. 

“That is exactly the question that the concierge was 
not able to answer, and so I decided to go to see 
Mme. Dammauville again.” 

“You are courageous,” Mme. Cormier said with 
pride. 

“ I assure you that I was not so on going up-stairs. 
After what I had heard of her character, it was truly 
audacious to go a second time, after an interval of two 
hours, to trouble her, but it was necessary. While 
ascending, I sought a reason to justify, or, at least, to 
explain my second visit, and I found only an adventur- 
ous one, for which I ought to ask your indulgence.” 

She said this on turning towards Saniel, but with 
lowered eyes, without daring to look at him, and with 
an emotion that made him uneasy. 

“ My indulgence ? ” he said. 

“ I acted without having time to reflect, and under 


Conscience. 


217 


the pressure of immediate necessity. As Mme. Dam- 
mauville expressed surprise at seeing me again, I told 
her that what she had said to me was so serious, and 
might have such consequences for the life and honor of 
my brother, that I had thought of returning the next 
day, accompanied by a person familiar with the affair, 
before whom she would repeat her story ; and that I 
came to ask her permission to present this person. 
This person is yourself.” 

“ Me ! ” 

“ And that is why,” she said feebly, without raising 
her eyes, “ that I have need of your indulgence.” 

“ But I had told you — ” he exclaimed with a violence 
that the dissatisfaction at being so disposed of was not 
sufficient to justify. 

“ That you could not present yourself before Mme. 
Dammauville in the character of a physician unless she 
sent for you. I did not forget that ; and it is not as a 
physician that I wish to beg you to accompany me, 
but as a friend, if you permit me to speak thus ; as the 
most devoted, the most firm, and the most generous 
friend that we have had the happiness to encounter in 
our distress.” 

“ My daughter speaks in my name, as in her own,” 
Mme. Cormier said with emotion ; “and I add that it is 
a respectful friendship, a profound gratitude, that we 
feel towards you.” 

Although Phillis trembled to see the effect that she 
produced on Saniel, she continued with firmness : 

“You would accompany me, then, without doing 
anything ostensibly, without saying you are a doctor, 
and while she talked you could examine her. Ma- 


2i8 


Conscience. 


dame Dammauville gave her consent to my request with 
extreme kindness. I shall return to her to-morrow, 
and if you think it useful, if you think you should 
accept the part that I claimed for you without con- 
sulting you, you can accompany me.” 

He did not reply to these last words, which were an 
invitation as well as a question. 

“ Did you not examine her as I told you ? ” he asked, 
after a moment of reflection. 

“ With all the attention of which I was capable in 
my anguish. Her glance seemed to me straight and 
untroubled ; her voice is regular, very rhythmical ; her 
words follow each other without hesitation ; her ideas 
are consecutive, and clearly expressed. There is no 
trace of suffering on her pale face, which bears only the 
mark of a resigned grief. She moves her arms freely, 
but the legs, so far as I could judge under the bed- 
clothes, are motionless. In many ways it seems to me 
that her paralysis resembles mamma’s, though it is true 
that in others it does not. She must be extremely sen- 
sitive to the cold, for although the weather is not cold 
to-day, the temperature of her room seemed very high.” 

“ This is an examination,” Saniel said, “ that a phy- 
sician could not have conducted better, unless he 
questioned the patient ; and had I been with you during 
this visit we should not have learned anything more. 
It appears certain that Mine. Dammauville is in full 
possession of her faculties, which renders her testimony 
invulnerable.” 

Mme. Cormier drew her daughter to her and kissed 
her passionately. 

“ I have, therefore, nothing to do with this lady,” 


Conscience. 


219 


continued Saniel, with the precipitation of a man who 
has just escaped a danger. ‘‘ But your part, mademoi- 
selle, is not finished, and you must return to her to- 
morrow to fulfil that which Nougarede confides to 
you.” 

He explained what Nougarede expected of her. 

“ Certainly,” she said. ‘‘ I will do all that I am 
advised to do for Florentin. I will return to Mme. 
Dammauville ; I will go everywhere. But will you 
permit me to express my astonishment that immediate 
profit is not made of this declaration to obtain the 
release of my brother ? ” 

He repeated the reasons that Nougarede had given 
him for not proceeding in this manner. 

“ I would not say anything that resembles a re- 
proach,” replied Mme. Cormier, with more decision 
than she ordinarily put into her words, “ but perhaps 
M. Nougarede has some personal considerations in his 
advice. Our interest is that Florentin should return 
to us as quickly as possible, and that he should be 
spared the sufferings of a prison. But I understand 
that to an ordonnance de non-lieu., in which h6 does not 
appear, M. Nougarede prefers the broad light of the 
court, where he could deliver a brilliant address, useful 
to his reputation.” 

“ Whether or not he has made this calculation,” 
Saniel said, “ things are thus. I, also, I should have 
preferred the ordonnance de non-lieu., which has the 
great advantage of finishing everything immediately. 
Nougarede does not believe that this would be a good 
plan to follow, so we must follow the one that he traces 
out for us.” 


14 


220 


Conscience. 


“ We will follow it,” Phillis said, “ and I believe that it 
may bring about the result that M. NougarMe expects, 
for Mme. Dammauville would have spoken to only 
a few persons. When I tried to make her explain 
herself on this point, without asking her the question 
directly, she told me that she had only spoken to the 
concierge of the non-resemblance of the portrait to the 
man she saw draw the curtains, so that the concierge 
who had often spoken to her of Florentin and of my 
efforts to save him, might warn me. I shall see, then, 
to-morrow, how far her story has spread, and I will go 
to see you about it at five o’clock, unless you prefer 
that I should go at once to see M. NougarMe.” 

“ Begin with me, and we will go together to see him, 
if there is occasion. I am going to write to him.” 

“ If I understand M. Nougarede’s plan, it seems to 
me that it rests upon Mme. Dammauville’s appearance 
in court. Will this appearance be possible ? That 
is what I could not learn ; only a physician could 
tell.” 

Saniel did not wish to let it appear that he under- 
stood this new challenge. 

“ I forgot to tell you,” Phillis continued, “ that the 
physician who takes care of her is Dr. Balzajette of the 
Rue de I’Echelle. Do you know him ? ” 

“ A prig, who conceals his ignorance under dignified 
manners.” 

No sooner had these words left his lips than he 
realized his stupidity. Mme. Dammauville should have 
an excellent physician, one who was so high in the esti- 
mation of his conf7‘eres that, if he did not cure her, it 
was because she was incurable. 


Conscience. 


221 


“ Then how can you hope that he will cure her in 
time for her to go to court ? ” Phillis asked. 

He did not answer, and rose to go. Timidly, Mme. 
Cormier repeated her invitation, but he did not accept 
it, in spite of the tender glance that Phillis gave him. 




VI. 

Would he be able to resist the pressure which from 
all sides at once pushed him towards the Rue Sainte- 
Anne ? 

It seemed that nothing was easier than not to com- 
mit the folly of yielding, and yet such was the persist- 
ence of the efforts that were united against him, that he 
asked himself if, one day, he would not be led to obey 
them in spite of himself. Phillis, Nougarede, Mme. 
Cormier. Now, from where would come a new attack ? 

For several months he had enjoyed a complete secu- 
rity, which convinced him that all danger was over for- 
ever. But all at once this danger burst forth under such 
conditions that he must recognize that there could never 
more be any security for him. To-day Mme. Dammau- 
ville menaced him ; to-morrow it would be some one 
else. Who ? He did not know. Everyone. And it 
was the anguish of his position to be condemned to 
live hereafter in fear, and on the defensive, Vv^ithout 
repose, without forgetfulness. 

But it was not to-morrow about which he need be 
uneasy at this moment, it was the present hour ; that 
is to say, Mme. Dammauville. 

That she should say, with so much firmness at the 
sight of a single portrait, that the man who drew the 
curtains was not Florentin, she must have an excellent 
memory of the eyes ; at the same time a resolute mind 


Conscience. 


223 


and a decision in her ideas, which permitted her to 
affirm without hesitation what she believed to be true. 

If they should ever meet, she would recognize him, 
and recognizing him, she would speak. 

Would she be believed ? 

This was the decisive question, and from what he 
had heard of her, it seemed that she would be. 

Denials would not suffice. He did not go to Caffie’s 
at a quarter past five. Where was he at this moment ? 
What witness could he call upon ? Caffie’s wound was 
made by a hand skilled in killing, and this learned 
hand was his, more even than that of a murderer. 
Every one knew that his position at that moment was 
desperate, financially speaking ; and, suddenly, he paid 
his debts. Who would believe the Monte Carlo story ? 

One word, one little insinuation, from Mme. Dammau- 
ville and he was lost, without defence, without possible 
struggles. 

Truly, and fortunately, since she was paralyzed and 
confined to her bed, he ran no risk of meeting her face 
to face at the corner of a street, or at the house of an 
acquaintance, nor of hearing the cry of surprise that 
she would not fail to give on recognizing him. But 
that was not enough to make him sleep in an imprudent 
security on saying to himself that this meeting was 
improbable. It was improbable, also, to admit that 
some one was exactly opposite to Caffie’s window at 
the moment when he drew the curtains ; more improb- 
able yet to believe that this fact, insignificant in itself, 
that this vision, lasting only an instant, would be so 
solidly engraved in a woman’s memory as to be dis- 
tinctly remembered after several months, as if it dated 


224 


Conscience. 


from the previous evening ; and, yet, of all these 
improbabilities, there was formed a reality which 
enclosed him in such way that at any moment it might 
stifle him. 

In spite of the importunities of Phillis, Mme. Cor- 
mier, and Nougarede, and of all those which might 
arise, he would not be fool enough to confront the 
danger of a recognition in the room where this paralytic 
was confined — at least, that was probable, for, after 
what had happened, he was certain of nothing — but 
this recognition might take place elsewhere. 

In Nougarede’s plan Mme. Dammauville would come 
to court to make her declaration ; he, himself, was a 
witness ; they would, therefore, at a given moment, 
meet each other, and it was not impossible that before 
the court the recognition would occur with a coup de 
thddtre very different from that arranged by Nougarede. 

Without doubt there were many chances that Mme. 
Dammauville would not be able to leave her bed to go 
to court ; but were there only one for her leaving it, 
he must foresee it and take precautions. 

A single one offered security : to render himself 
unrecognizable ; to cut his beard and hair ; to be no 
more the long-haired, curled, blond-bearded man that 
she remembered. Had he been like every one else 
she would not have remarked him ; or, at least, she 
would have confounded him with others. A man can 
only permit himself to be original in appearance when 
he is sure beforehand that he will never have anything 
to fear. 

Assuredly, nothing was easier than to have his hair 
and beard cut ; he had only to enter the first barber 


Conscience. 


225 


shop he came to ; in a few minutes the change would 
be radical. 

Among his acquaintances he need not be uneasy at 
the curiosity that this change might produce ; more 
than one would not remark it, and those who would be 
surprised at first, would soon cease to think of it, with- 
out doubt; otherwise, he had an easy answer for them; 
on the eve of becoming a serious personage, he aban- 
doned the last eccentricities of the old student, and 
passed the bridge without wish to return by the left 
bank. 

But it was not only to acquaintances that he must 
account ; there were Phillis and Nougarede. Had not 
the latter already remarked the resemblance between 
him and the description, and would it not be imprudent 
to lead him to ask why this resemblance suddenly dis- 
appeared ? 

It would be dangerous to expose himself to this 
question from the lawyer, but it would be much more 
dangerous coming from Phillis. Nougarede would only 
show surprise ; Phillis might ask for an explanation. 

And he must reply to her so much the more clearly, 
because four or five times already he had almost 
betrayed himself regarding Mm'e. Dammauville, and if 
she had let his explanations or embarrassment pass, his 
hesitations or his refusal, without questioning him 
frankly, certainly she was not the less astonished. 
Should he appear before her with short hair and no 
beard, it would be a new astonishment which, added to 
the others, would establish suspicions ; and logically, by 
the force of things, in spite of herself, in spite of her 
love and her faith, she would arrive at conclusions 

15 


226 


Conscience. 


from which she would not be able to free herself. 
Already, five or six months before, this question of long 
hair and beard had been agitated between them. As 
he complained one day of the bourgeois who would not 
come to him, she gently explained to him that to please 
and attract these bourgeois it was, perhaps, not quite 
well to astonish those whom one does not shock. That 
overcoats less long, hats with less brim, and hair and 
beard shorter ; in fact, a general appearance that more 
nearly approached their own, would be, perhaps, more 
agreeable. He became angry, and replied plainly that 
such concessions were not in keeping with his character. 
How could he now abruptly make these concessions, 
and at a time when his success at the examinations 
placed him above such small compromises ? He 
resisted when he needed help, and when a patient was an 
affair of life or death to him ; he yielded when he had 
need of no one, and when he did not care for patients. 
The contradiction was truly too strong, and such that 
it could not but strike Phillis, whose attention had 
already had only too much to arouse it. 

And yet, as dangerous as it was to come to the 
decision to make himself unrecognizable, it would be 
madness on his part to draw back ; the sooner the bet- 
ter. His fault had been in not foreseeing, the day 
after Caffie’s death, that circumstances might arise 
sooner or later which would force it upon him. At that 
moment it did not present the same dangers as now ; 
but parting from the idea that he had not been seen by 
any one, that he could not have been seen, he had 
rejoiced in the security that this conviction gave him, 
and quietly become benumbed. 


Conscience. 


227 


The awakening had come ; with his eyes open he 
saw the abyss to the edge of which his stupidity had 
brought him. 

How strong would he not be if during the last three 
months he had not had this long hair and beard, which 
was most terrible testimony against him Instead of 
taking refuge in miserable makeshifts when Phillis and 
Nougarede asked him to see Mme. Dammauville, he 
would have intrepidly held his own, and have gone to 
see her as they wished. In that case he would be 
saved, and soon Florentin would be also. 

And he believed himself intelligent ! And he 
proudly imagined he could arrange things beforehand so 
well that he would never be surprised ! What he should 
have foreseen would come to pass, nothing more : the 
lesson that experience taught him was hard, and this 
was not the first one : the evening of Caffie’s death he 
saw very clearly that a new situation opened before 
him, which to the end of his life would make him the 
prisoner of his crime. To tell the truth, however, this 
impression became faint soon enough ; but now it was 
stronger than ever, and to a certainty, never to be dis- 
missed again. 

But it was useless to look behind ; it was the present 
and the future that he must measure with a clear and 
firm glance, if he did not wish to be lost. 

After carefully examining and weighing the question, 
he decided to have his hair and beard cut. However 
adventurous this resolution was, however embarrassing 
it might become in provoking curiosity and questions, it 
was the only way of escaping a possible recognition. 

Mechanically, by habit, he bent his steps towards the 


228 


Conscience. 


Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, where his barber lived, 
but he had taken only a few steps when reflection 
caused him to stop ; it would be certainly a mistake to 
provoke the gossip of this man who knew him, and who, 
for the pleasure of talking, would tell every one in the 
quarter that he had just cut the hair and beard of Dr. 
Saniel. He returned to the boulevard, where he was not 
known. 

But as he was about to open the door of the 
shop which he decided to enter, he changed his mind. 
He happened to find the explanation that he must 
give Phillis, and as he wished to avoid the surprise that 
she would not fail to show if she saw him suddenly 
without hair and beard, he would give this explanation 
before having them cut, in such a way that all at once 
and without looking for another reason, she would 
understand that this operation was indispensable. 

And he went to dinner, furious with himself and with 
things, to see to what miserable expedients he was 
reduced. 




VII. 

The following day at five o’clock when Phillis rang, 
he opened the door for her. Hardly had she entered 
when she was about to throw herself into his arms as 
usual, with a quickness that told how happy she was 
to see him. But he checked her with his hand. 

‘‘What is the matter?” she asked, paralyzed and 
full of fears. 

“ Nothing ; or, at least, nothing much.” 

“ Against me ? ” 

“ Certainly not, dear one.” 

“ You are ill ? ” 

“ No, not ill, but I must take precautions which pre- 
vent me from embracing you. I will explain ; do not 
be uneasy, it is not serious.” 

“ Quick ! ” she cried, examining him, and trying to 
anticipate his thought. 

“ You have something to tell me ? ” 

“ Yes, good news. But I beg of you, speak first ; do 
not leave me in suspense.” 

“ I assure you that you need not be uneasy ; and 
when I speak thus, you know that you should believe 
me. You see that I am not uneasy.” 

“ It is for others that you are alarmed, never for 
yourself.” 

« “ Do you know what the pelagre is ? ” 





230 


Co}iscience. 


“ No.” 

“ It is a special disease of the hair and beard, due 
to the presence in the epidermis of a kind of mush- 
room. Well, it is probable that I have this disease.” 

“ Is it serious ? ” 

“Troublesome for a man, but disastrous for a woman, 
because, before any treatment, the hair must be cut. 
You understand, therefore, that if I have the pelagre, 
as I believe I have, I am not going to expose you to 
the risk of catching it in embracing you. It is very 
easily transmitted, and in that case you would be 
obliged, probably, to do for yourself what I must do 
for myself ; that is, to cut my hair. With me it is of 
no consequence ; but with you it would be murder to 
sacrifice your beautiful hair.” 

“You say, ‘probably.’” 

“ Because I am not yet quite certain that I have the 
pelagre. For about two weeks I have felt a slight itch- 
ing in my head, and naturally, I paid no attention 
to it. I had other things to do ; and besides, I was 
not going to believe I was attacked with a parasitic 
malady, merely on account of an itching. But, after 
some time, my hair became dry and began to fall out. 
I had no time to attend to it, and the days passed ; 
besides, the excitement of my examinations was enough 
to make my hair fall. To-day, just before you came, 
I had a few minutes to spare, and I examined one of my 
hairs through a microscope ; if I had not been dis- 
turbed I should have finished by this time.” 

“Continue your examination.” 

“ It would take some time to do it thoroughly. If 
it is really the pelagre, as I have reason to believe, 


Conscience. 


231 


to-morrow you will see me without hair and beard. I 
would not hesitate, in spite of the astonishment that 
my appearance would cause.” 

“What good will that do?” 

“ I cannot tell people that I had my hair and beard 
cut because I have a parasitic disease. Every one 
knows it is contagious.” 

“When the hair is cut, what will become of the 
disease ? ” 

“ With energetic treatment it will rapidly disappear. 
Before long you may embrace me if — you do not find 
me too ugly.” 

“ O dearest ! ” 

“ And now for you ; you have come from Mme. 
Dammauville ? ” 

He did not need to persist ; Phillis accepted his 
story so readily that he felt reassured on her side ; she 
would not alarm herself about it. As for others, the 
embarrassment of confessing a contagious malady 
would be a sufficient explanation, if he were ever 
obliged to furnish one. 

“ What did she say to you ? ” he asked. 

“Good and kind words to begin with, which show 
what an excellent woman she is. After having pre- 
sented myself twice at her house yesterday, you under- 
stand that I was not quite easy on asking her to receive 
me again to-day. As I tried to excuse myself, she said 
she was glad to see my devotion to my brother, that I 
need never excuse myself for asking her assistance, and 
that she would help me all she could. With this en- 
couragement I explained what we want her to do, but 
she did not appear disposed to do it. Without giving 


Conscience. 


232 


her M. Nougarede’s reasons, I told her that we were 
obliged to conform to the counsels of those who 
directed the affair, and I begged her to help us. Finally 
she was won over, but reluctantly, and said she would 
do as we wished. But she could not assure me that 
her servants had not talked about it, nor could she 
promise to leave her bed to go to court, for she had 
not left her room for a year.” 

“ Does she expect to be able to rise soon ? ” 

“ I repeat her words, to which I paid great attention 
in order to not forget them : ‘ I am promised that I 
shall be better next year, but who can tell ? I will 
urge my doctor to give me an answer, and when you 
come again I will tell you what he says.’ Profiting by 
the door that she opened to me, I kept the conversa- 
tion on this doctor. It seems to me, but I am not 
certain, that she has but little confidence in him. He 
was the classmate of her husband and of her brother- 
in-law the notary ; he is the friend of every one, cur- 
ing those who can be cured, or letting them die by 
accident. You see what kind of a doctor he is.” 

“ I told you I knew him.” 

See if I deceive myself, and to what I tell you, add 
what you already know. Frightened to see in whose 
hands she is, I undertook to find out, and finished by 
learning — without asking her directly — that she has 
seen no other physician during the year. When she 
was taken with paralysis a consultation was held, and 
she has had Dr. Balzajette ever since. She says he is 
good and kind, and takes care of her as well as another 
would.” 

Saniel improved the opportunity to refer to his 


Conscience. 


233 


stupidity in frankly expressing his opinion on the 
solemn Balzajette. 

“ It is probable,” he said. 

“ Is it certain ? Do you believe that during one year 
nothing has appeared in Mme. Dammauville’s disease 
that should demand new treatment ? Do you think the 
solemn Balzajette is incapable of finding it all by him- 
self ?” 

“ He is not so dull as you suppose.” 

“ It is you who speak of dulness.” 

“To diagnose a disease and to treat it are two things. 
It is the consultation of which you speak that settled 
the question of Mme. Dammauville’s disease, and pre- 
scribed the treatment that Balzajette had only to apply ; 
and his capacity, I assure you, is sufficient for this 
task.” 

As she appeared but little reassured, he persisted, for 
it would be an imprudence to let Phillis become enam- 
oured of the idea that if he attended Mme. Dammau- 
ville, surely he would cure her, even if it required a 
miracle. 

“ We have some time before us, since the ordonnance 
de renvoi before the assizes is not yet given out. And 
Mme. Dammauville has promised to question her doc- 
tor, to learn if he hopes to put her in condition to leave 
her bed soon. Let us wait, therefore.” 

“ Would it not be better to act than to wait ” 

“ At least let us wait for news from Balzajette. 
Either it will be satisfactory, and then we shall have 
nothing to do, or it will not be, and in that case I 
promise you to see Balzajette. I know him well enough 
to speak to him of your patient, which, above all. 


234 


Consciefice. 


enables me, in making your brother intervene, to interest 
myself openly in his re-establishment.” 

“ O dearest, dearest ! ” she murmured, in a spirit of 
gratitude. 

“ You cannot doubt my devotion to you first, and 
to your brother afterwards. You asked me an im- 
possible thing, that I was obliged to refuse, to my 
regret, precisely because it was impossible ; but you 
know that I am yours, and will do all I can for your 
family.” 

“ Forgive me.” 

“ I have nothing to forgive ; in your place I should 
think as you do, but I believe that in mine you would 
act as I do.” 

‘‘ Be sure that I have never had an idea of blame in 
my heart for what is with you an affair of dignity. It 
is because you are high and proud that I love you so 
passionately.” 

She rose. 

“ Are you going ? ” he asked. 

“ I want to carry Mme. Dammauville’s good words 
to mamma ; you can imagine with what anguish she 
awaits me.” 

“ Let us go. I will leave you at the boulevard to go 
to see Nougarede.” 

The interview with the advocate was short. 

“You see, dear friend, that my plan is good ; bring 
Mme. Dammauville to court, and we shall have some 
pleasant moments.” 

This time Saniel had not the hesitation of the previous 
evening, and he entered the first barber-shop he saw. 
When he returned to his rooms he lighted two candles. 


Conscience, 


235 


and placing them on the mantel, he looked at himself 
in the glass. 

Coquetry had never been his sin, and often weeks 
passed without his looking in a mirror, so indifferent 
was he when making his toilet. However, as a young 
boy he sometimes looked in his small glass, asking him- 
self what he would become, and he could now recall his 
looks — an energetic face with clearly drawn features, 
a physiognomy open and frank, without being pretty, 
but not disagreeable. His beard had concealed all 
this ; but now that it was gone, he said to himself 
without much reflection, that he would find again, with- 
out doubt, the boy he remembered. 

What he saw in the glass was a forehead lined trans- 
versely ; oblique eyebrows, raised at the inside extremity, 
and a mouth with tightened lips turned down at the 
corners ; furrows were hollowed in the cheeks ; and the 
whole physiognomy, harassed, ravaged, expressed hard- 
ness. 

What had become of that of the young man of other 
days ? He had before him the man that life had made, 
and of which the violent contractions of the muscles of 
the face had modelled the expression. 

“ Truly, the mouth of an assassin ! ” he murmured. 

Then, looking at his shaved head, he added with a 
smile : 

And perhaps that of one condemned to death, whose 
toilet has just been made for the ^millotine.” 


15 



VIII. 

To have made himself unrecognizable was, without 
doubt, a safe precaution ; but having started on this 
course, he would not be easy until he had destroyed all 
traces of himself in such a way that Mme. Dammau- 
ville would never be able to find the man that she had 
seen so clearly under Caffie’s lamp. 

Precisely because he was not vain and had no pre- 
tension to beauty, he had escaped the photograph 
mania. Once only he had been photographed in spite 
of himself, simply to oblige a classmate who had 
abandoned medicine for photography. 

But now this once was too much, for there was 
danger that this portrait taken three years before, and 
showing him with the hair and beard that he wished to 
suppress, might be discovered. Without doubt there 
were few chances that a copy of it would be seen by 
Mme. Dammauville ; but if there existed only one 
against a hundred thousand, he must arrange it so that 
he need have no fear. 

He had had a dozen copies of this photograph, but 
as his relatives were few, he kept the majority of them. 
One he sent to his mother, who was living at that 
time ; another went to the priest of his village, and 
later he had given one to Phillis. He must, then, 


Conscience. 


237 


have nine in his possession. He found them and 
burned them immediately. 

Of the three that remained, only one might testify 
against him, the one belonging to Phillis. But it 
would be easy for him to get it again on inventing 
some pretext, while as to the others, truly he had 
nothing to fear. 

The real danger might come from the photographer, 
who perhaps had some of the photographs, and who 
undoubtedly preserved the negative. This was his 
first errand the next day. 

On entering the studio of his friend, he experienced a 
disagreeable deception that troubled him and made him 
uneasy ; he had not given his name, and counting on 
the change made by the cutting of his hair and beard, 
he said to himself that this friend, who had not seen 
him for a long time, certainly would not recognize him. 

He had taken but a few steps, his hat in his hand, 
like a stranger who is about to accost another, when 
the photographer came towards him with outstretched 
hand, and a friendly smile on his face. 

“ You, my dear friend ! What good fortune is worth 
the pleasure of your visit to me ? Can I be useful to 
you in any way ? ” 

“ You recognize me, then ? ” 

“ What ! Do I recognize you ? Do you ask that 
because you have cut your hair and beard ? Certainly 
it changes you and gives you a new physiognomy ; but 
I should be unworthy of my business if, by a different 
arrangement of the hair, I could not recognize you. 
Besides, eyes of steel like yours are not forgotten 5 they 
are a description and a signature.” 


238 


Conscience. 


Then this means in which he placed so much con- 
fidence, was only a new imprudence, as the question, 
“ You recognize me, then ? ” was a mistake. 

“ Come, I will pose you at once,” the photographer 
said. “Very curious, this shaved head, and still more 
interesting, I think, than with the beard and long hair. 
The traits of character are more clearly seen.” 

“ It is not for a new portrait that I have come, but 
for the old one. Have you any of the proofs ? ” 

“ I think not, but I will see. In any case, if you 
wish some they are easily made, since I have the 
plate.” 

“Will you look them up? For I have not a single 
proof left of those you gave me, and on looking at 
myself in the glass this morning I found such changes 
between my face of to-day and that of three years ago, 
that I would like to study them. Certain ideas came 
to me on the expression of the physiognomy, that I wish 
to study, with something to support them.” 

The search for the proofs made by an assistant led 
to no results ; there were no proofs. 

“ Exactly ; and for several days I have thought of 
making some, ” the photographer said. “ Because your 
day of glory will come, when your portrait will be in 
a distinguished place in the shop-windows and collec- 
tions. Every one talks of your concours. Although I 
have abandoned medicine without the wish to return 
to it, I have not become indifferent to what concerns 
it, and I learned of your success. Which portrait 
shall we put in circulation ? The old or the new ? ” 

“ The new.” 

“ Then let us arrange the pose.” 


Conscience. 


239 


“ Not to-day ; it is only yesterday that I was shaved, 
fearing an attack of pelagre, and the skin covered by 
the beard has a crude whiteness that will accentuate 
the hardness of my physiognomy, which is really use- 
less. We will wait until the air has tanned me a little, 
and then I will return, I promise you.” 

“ How many proofs do you want of your old por- 
trait ? ” 

“ One will do,” 

“ I will send you a dozen.” 

“ Do not take the trouble ; I will take them when I 
come to pose. But in the meantime, could you not 
show me the plate ? ” 

“ Nothing easier.” 

When it was brought, Saniel took the glass plate with 
great care, holding it with the tips of his fingers by 
the two opposite corners, in order not to efface the 
portrait. Then, as he was standing in the shadow of 
a blue curtain, he walked towards the chimney where 
the light was strong, and began his examination. 

“ It is very good,” he said ; “ very curious.” 

“Only a photograph can have this documentary value.” 

To compare this document with the reality, Saniel 
approached the chimney more closely, above which was 
a mirror. When his feet touched the marble hearth he 
stopped, looking alternately at the plate which he held 
carefully in his hands, and at his face reflected in the 
glass. Suddenly he made an exclamation ; he let fall 
the plate, which, falling flat on the marble, broke into 
little pieces that flew here and there. 

“ How awkward I am ! ” 

He showed a vexation that should not leave the 


240 


Conscience. 


smallest doubt in the photographer’s mind as to its 
truth. 

“ You must get one of the proofs that you have given 
away,” his friend said, “for I have not a single one 
left.” 

“ I will try and find one.” 

What he did try to find on leaving, was whether or 
no he had succeeded in rendering himself unrecogniza- 
ble, for he could not trust to this experience, weakened 
by the fact that this old friend was a photographer. 
With him it was a matter of business to note the typ- 
ical traits that distinguish one face from another, and in 
a long practice he had acquired an accuracy that Mme. 
Dammauville could not possess. 

Among the persons he knew, it seemed to him that 
the one in the best condition to give certainty to the 
proof was Mme. Cormier. He knew that at this hour 
she would be alone, and as she had not been, assuredly, 
warned by her daughter that he intended to shave, the 
experiment would be presented in a way to give a result 
as exact as possible. 

In answer to his ring Mme. Cormier opened the door, 
and he saluted her without being recognized ; but as 
the hall was dark this was not of great significance. His 
hat in his hand, he followed her into the dining-room 
without speaking, in order that his voice should not 
betray him. 

Then, after she had looked at him a moment, with 
uneasy surprise at first, she began to smile. 

“ But it is Dr. Saniel ! ” she cried. ^^Mon Dieu ! How 
stupid of me not to recognize you ; it changes you so 
much to be shaved ! Pardon me.” 


Conscience. 


241 


“ It is because I am shaved that I come to ask a 
favor.” • 

“ Of us, my dear sir ? Ah ! Speak quickly ; we 
should be so happy to prove our gratitude.” 

“ I would ask Mile. Phillis to give me, if she still has 
it, a photograph that I gave her about a year ago.” 

As Phillis wished the liberty to expose this photo- 
graph frankly, in order to have it always before her, she 
had asked for it, and Saniel had given it to her, in her 
mother’s presence. 

“ If she has it ! ” exclaimed Mme Cormier. “Ah ! 
my dear sir, you do not know the place that all your 
goodness, and the services that you have rendered us, 
have made for you in our hearts.” 

And passing into the next room, she brought a small 
velvet frame in which was the photograph. Saniel took 
it out, on explaining the study for which he wanted it, 
and after promising to bring it back soon, he returned 
to his rooms. 

Decidedly, everything was going well. The plate was 
destroyed, Phillis’s proof in his hands ; he had nothing 
more to fear from this side. As to the experiment tried 
on Mme. Cormier, it was decisive enough to inspire him 
with full confidence. If Mme. Cormier, who had seen 
him so often and for so long a time, and who thought 
of him at every instant, did not recognize him, how was 
it possible to admit that Mme. Dammauville, who had 
only seen him from a distance and for a few seconds, 
could recognize him after several months ? 

Would he never accustom himself to the idea that his 
life could not have the tranquil monotony of a bourgeois 
existence, that it would experience shocks and storms, 
16 


242 


Conscience. 


but that if he knew how to remain always master of his 
force and will, it would bring him to a safe port ? 

The calm that was his before this vexation, came 
back to him ; and when the last proofs of his concours^ 
confirming the success of the first, had given him the 
two titles that he so ardently desired and pursued at 
the price of so many pains, so many efforts and priva- 
tions, he could enjoy his triumph in all security. 

He held the present in his strong hands, and the 
future was his. 

Now he could walk straight, boldly, his head high, 
jostling those who annoyed him, according to his nat- 
ural temperament. 

Although these last months had been full of terrible 
agitation for him, on account of everything connected 
with the affair of Cafiie and Florentin, and above all, 
on account of the fatigue, emotion, and the fever of his 
concours^ yet be had not interrupted his special works 
for a day or even an hour, and his experiments fol- 
lowed for so many years had at length produced impor- 
tant results, that prudence alone prevented him from 
publishing. In opposition to the official teaching of the 
school, these discoveries would have caused the hair to 
stand upright on the old heads ; and it was not the time, 
when he asked permission to enter, to draw upon him- 
self the hostility of these venerable doorkeepers, who 
would bar the way to a revolutionist. But, now that he 
was in the place for ten or twelve years, he need take 
no precautions, either for persons or for ideas, and he 
might speak. 



IX. 

Saniel saw his colleague, the solemn Balzajette, and 
so adroitly as not to provoke surprise or suspicion, he 
spoke to him of Mme. Dammauville, in whom he was 
interested incidentally ; without persisting, and only to 
justify his question, he explained the nature of this 
interest. 

Although solemn, Balzajette was not the less a 
gossip, and it was his solemnity that made him gossip. 
He listened to himself talk, and when, his chest bulging, 
his pink chin freshly shaved resting on his white cravat, 
his be-ringed hand describing in the air noble and 
demonstrative gestures, one could, if one had the 
patience to listen to him, make him say all that one 
wished ; for he was convinced that his interlocutor 
passed an agreeable moment, whose remembrance would 
never be forgotten. His patients might wait in pain 
or anguish, he did not hasten the majestic delivery of 
his high-sounding phrases with choice adjectives ; and 
unless it was to go to a dinner-party, which he did at 
least five days in the week, he could not leave you until 
after he had made you partake of the admiration that 
he professed for himself. 

It was to an affection of the spinal cord that Mme. 
Dammauville’s paralysis was due, and consequently it 
was perfectly curable ; even Balzajette was astonished 



244 


Conscience. 


that with his treatment and his care the cure was 
delayed. 

“ But what shall I say to you, young confr'tre ? You 
know better than I that with women everything is pos- 
sible — above all the impossible.” 

And during a half-hour he complaisantly related the 
astonishment that the fashionable women under his care 
had caused him, in spite of his knowledge and experi- 
ence. 

“ Well, to resume, what shall I tell you, young con- 
frere V 

And he repeated and explained what he had already 
said and explained. 

Although Balzajette read only a morning paper, and 
never opened a book, he had heard of Saniel’s reputa- 
tion, and because he was young he thought he might 
manage this confrere^ who seemed destined to make a 
good position. In spite of the high esteem that he pro- 
fessed for his own merits and person, he vaguely felt 
that the doctors of his generation who were eminent, 
did not treat him with all the consideration that he 
accorded himself, and in order to teach his ancient 
comrades a lesson, he was glad to enter into friendly 
relations with a young one dans le mouvement. He 
would speak of his young confrlre Saniel : ‘‘You know 
the one who was appointed agre'gdf and he would 
relate the advice that he, Balzajette, had given him. 

That Mme. Dammauville would be well enough to 
go to court, Saniel doubted, above all, after Balzajette 
had explained his treatment ; and as far as he was con- 
cerned, he could not but rejoice. Doubtless, it would 
be hard for Florentin to not have this testimony, and 


Conscience. 


245 


to not profit by the coup de thMtre prepared by Nou- 
garede ; but for himself, he could only feel happy over 
it. In spite of all the precautions he had taken, it would 
be better not to expose himself to a meeting with Mme. 
Dammauville in the witness-chamber, or even in court. 
They must depend upon a letter supported by Balza- 
jette’s deposition, and Florentin would be not the less 
acquitted. Only Nougarede would have to regret his 
coup de thMtre. But the satisfaction or disappointment 
of NougarMe was nothing to him. 

But he did not tell Phillis the ideas suggested by his 
interview with Balzajette ; he summed up the conclu- 
sions of this interview. Balzajette declared that Mme. 
Dammauville would soon be on her feet, and one 
might have faith in his word ; Florentin would be 
saved, and there was nothing to do but to let things go 
on as they were going. 

And Phillis, Mme. Cormier, Nougarede, Florentin 
himself, whom the Mazas cell had reconciled neither 
with hope nor with providential justice, were all de- 
lighted with this idea. 

Also, when the chamber of the prosecution sent 
Florentin before the assizes, the emotion of Mme. Cor- 
mier and Phillis would not be too violent. Mme. 
Dammauville would be in a condition to make her 
deposition, since the evening before she had been able 
to leave her bed ; and although she left it for only an 
hour, and then to go from her bedroom to her parlor, 
that was enough. Nougarede said that the affair would 
come on at the second session in April ; between then 
and now Mme. Dammauville would be solid enough on 
her legs to appear before the jury and carry the acquittal. 


246 


Conscience. 


To Phillis, Saniel repeated that the cure was certain, 
and to her, also, he rejoiced aloud. But he was 
troubled about this cure. This meeting, only the idea 
of which had alarmed him to the point of losing his 
head, would be brought about, and under conditions 
that could not but affect him. Truly, the precautions 
he had taken should reassure him, but after all, there 
remained no less a troublesome uncertainty. Who 
could tell ? He preferred that she should not leave 
her room, and that Nougarede should find a way to 
obtain her deposition without taking her to court ; he 
would then feel more reassured, more calm in mind, 
and with a more impassive face he could go to court. 

Was he really unrecognizable ? This was the ques- 
tion that beset him now. Many times he compared his 
reflection in the glass with the photograph that he had 
given Phillis. The hair and beard were gone, but his 
eyes of steel, as his friend said, still remained, and 
nothing could change them. He might wear blue eye- 
glasses, or injure himself in a chemical experiment and 
wear a bandage. But such a disguise would provoke 
curiosity and questions just so much more dangerous, 
because it would coincide with the disappearance of 
his hair and beard. 

But these fears did not torment him long, for Phillis, 
who now passed a part of every day in the Rue Sainte- 
Anne with Mme. Dammauville, arrived one evening in 
despair, and told him that that day the invalid had 
been able to leave her bed for a few minutes only. 

Then she would not go to court. 

This apprehension of meeting Mme. Dammauville 
face to face had begun to exasperate him ; he felt 


Conscience. 


247 


like a coward in yielding to it, and since he had not 
the force to shake it off, he was happy to be relieved 
from it by the intervention of chance, which, after 
having been against him so long, now became favorable. 
The wheel turned. 

“ See Mme. Dammauville every day,” he said to 
Phillis, “ and note all that she feels ; perhaps I shall 
find some way to repair this impediment, something 
that I may suggest to Balzajette without his suspecting 
it. Besides, it is reasonable to believe that the re- 
crudescence of cold that we are suffering from now 
may have something to do with the change in her con- 
dition ; it is probable that with the mild spring weather 
she may improve.” 

He hoped by this counsel to quiet Phillis’s uneasi- 
ness and to gain time. But it had the opposite effect. 
In her anguish, which increased as the time for the trial 
approached, it was not probabilities, any more than the 
uncertain influence of the spring, that Phillis could 
depend on ; she must have something more and better ; 
but fearing a refusal, she forbore to tell him what she 
hoped to obtain. 

It was only when she had succeeded that she spoke. 

Every evening, on leaving Mme. Dammauville, she 
came to tell him what she had learned, and for three 
successive days her story was the same : 

“ She was not able to leave her bed.” 

And each day he made the same reply : 

“ It is the cold weather. Surely, we shall soon have 
a change ; this frost and wind will not continue beyond 
the end of March.” 

He was pained at her desolation and anguish, but 


248 


Conscience. 


what could he do ? It was not his fault that this re- 
lapse occurred at a decisive moment ; fate had been 
against him long enough, and he was not going to 
counteract it at the time when it seemed to take his 
side, by yielding to the desire that Phillis dared not 
express, but which he divined, and by going to see 
Mme. Dammauville. 

When she entered his office on the fourth day, he 
knew at once by her manner that something favorable 
to Florentin had happened. 

“ Mme. Dammauville is up,” he said. 

“ No.” 

“ I thought she must be, by your vivacity and light- 
ness.” 

“ It is because I am happy ; Mme. Dammauville 
wishes to consult you.” 

He took her hands roughly and shook them. 

“You have done that ! ” he exclaimed. 

She looked at him frightened. 

“ You ! You ! ” he repeated with increasing fury. 

“ At least listen to me,” she murmured. “ You will 
see that I have not compromised you in anything.” 

Compromised ! It was professional dignity of which 
he thought, truly ! 

“ I do not want to listen to you ; I shall not go.” 

“ Do not say that.” 

“ It only needed that you should dispose of me in 
your own way.” 

“ Victor ! ” 

Anger carried him away. 

“ I belong to you, then ! I am your thing ! You do 
with me what you wish ! You decide, and I have only 


Conscience. 


249 


to obey ! There is too much of this ! You can go ; 
everything is at an end between us.” 

She listened, crushed ; but this last word, which 
struck her in her love, gave her strength. In her turn 
she took his hands, and although he wished to with- 
draw them, she held them closely in her own. 

“ You may throw in my face all the angry words you 
please ; you may reproach me as much as you think I 
deserve it, and I will not complain. Without doubt, I 
have done you wrong, and I feel the weight of it on 
seeing how profoundly you are wounded ; but to send 
me away, to tell me that all is over between us, no, 
Victor, you will not do that. You will not say it, for 
you know that never was a man loved as I love you, 
adored, respected. And voluntarily, deliberately, even 
to save my brother, that I should have compromised 
you ! ” 

He pushed her from him. 

“ Go ! ” he said harshly. 

She threw herself on her knees, and taking his hands 
that he had withdrawn, she kissed them passionately. 

“But listen to me,” she cried. “Before condemn- 
ing me, hear my defence. Even if I were a hundred 
times more guilty than I really am, you could not drive 
me from you with this unmerciful hardness.” 

“ Go ! ” 

“You lose your head; anger carries you away. 
What is the matter ? It is impossible that I, by my 
stupidity, through my fault, could put you in such a 
state of mad exasperation. What is the matter, my 
beloved ? ” 

These few words did more than Phillis's despair or 


250 


Conscience, 


her expressions of love. She was right, he lost his 
head. And however guilty she might be towards him, 
it was evident that she could not admit that the fault 
she committed threw him into this access of furious 
folly. It was not natural ; and in his words and 
actions all must be natural, all must be capable of 
explanation. 

“ Very well, speak ! ” he said. “ I am listening to 
you. Moreover, it is better to know. Speak ! ” 




X. 

“ You should understand,” she said with a little 
more calmness — for, since he permitted her to speak, 
she hoped to convince him — “ that for four days I 
have done all I could to bring Mme. Dammauville to 
the idea of calling, in consultation with M. Balzajette, a 
doctor ” 

‘‘ Which would be myself.” 

“ You or another ; I have not mentioned any name. 
You should not think me awkward enough to put you 
forward clumsily ; it would not be a good way to make 
you acceptable to an intelligent woman, and I value 
your dignity too much to play with it. I believed that 
another doctor than M. Balzajette would find a remedy, 
some way, a miracle if you will, that would enable 
Mme. Dammauville to go the Palais de Justice, and I 
said it. I said it in every tone, in every way, with as 
much persuasion as I could put in my words. Was it 
not the life of my brother that I defended, our honor ? 
At first, I found Mme. Dammauville very much op- 
posed to this idea. She would be better soon, she felt 
it. Otherwise, if it were her duty to be carried to the 
Palais de Justice, she would not hesitate.” 

“ She would do that ? ” 

“Assuredly. No one has a stronger sense of justice. 
She would feel guilty did she not give her testimony to 
save an innocent person ; to not save him when she 


Conscience. 


252 


could, would be to take the responsibility of his loss. It 

is, therefore, certain, that if she cannot go to court alone, 
she will do all she can to go, no matter how — on M. 
Balzajette’s arm, or on a stretcher. I was, then, easy 
enough on this side, but I was not for the stretcher. 
What would people think to see her in this condition ? 
What impression would she make on the jury ? Would 
not her appearance weaken the value of her testimony ? 
As Mme. Dammauville is really fond of me, and very 
kind to me, I determined to profit by this kindness 
to urge a consultation, but without mentioning any 
name. I represented to her that, since M. Balzajette 
might say with every appearance of truth he had cured 
her, he should not be angry if she desired to ratify 
this cure. That besides, there was an imperative 
motive that would not permit her to wait, for it would 
be very disagreeable to her to present herself at the 
court of assizes in a theatrical way, which was not at 
all according to her character or habits. I easily dis- 
covered that the fear of giving pain to this old friend 
of her husband was the chief reason why she was 
opposed to this consultation. It was then that your 
name was pronounced.” 

‘‘ You acknowledge it, then ? ” 

‘‘You will see how, and you will not be angry about 

it. I have often spoken to Mme. Dammauville of 
mamma, and, consequently, of how you cured her par- 
alysis, that resembled hers. It was not wrong, was it, to 
say what you have done for us ? And without letting 
any one suspect my love, I could praise you, which my 
gratitude prompted. She asked me many questions, 
and naturally, as usual when I speak of you, when I 


Conscience. 


253 


have the joy of pronouncing your name, I answered in 
detail. That is not a crime ? ” 

She waited a moment, looking at him. Without soft- 
ening the hardness of his glance, he made a sign to her 
to continue. 

‘‘ When I persisted about the consultation, Mme. 
Dammauville recalled what I had said, and she was the 
first — you hear ? — the first to pronounce your name. 
As you had cured my mother, I had the right to 
praise you. With a nature like hers, she would not 
have understood if I had not done it ; she would have 
believed me ungrateful. I spoke of your book on the 
diseases of the spinal cord, which was quite natural ; 
and as she manifested a desire to read it, I offered to 
lend it to her.” 

“Was that natural ? ” 

“With any one but Mme. Dammauville, no ; but she 
is not frivolous. I took the book to her two days ago, 
and she has just told me that, after reading it, she has 
decided to send for you.” 

“ I shall certainly not go ; she has her own physician.” 

“ Do not imagine that I have come to ask you to pay 
her a visit ; all is arranged with M. Balzajette, who will 
write to you or see you, I do not know which.” 

“ That will be very extraordinary on the part of Bal- 
zajette ! ” 

“ Perhaps you judge him harshly. When Mme. 
Dammauville spoke to him of you he did not raise the 
smallest objection ; on the contrary, he praised you. He 
says that you are one of the rare young men in whom 
one may have confidence. These are his own words 
that Mme. Dammauville told me.” 


254 


Conscience. 


“ What do I care for the opinion of this old 
beast ! ” 

“ I am explaining how it happens that you are called 
into consultation ; it is not because I spoke of you, but 
because you have inspired M. Balzajette with confi- 
dence. However stupid he may be, he is just to you, 
and knows your value.” 

It was come then, the time for the meeting that he 
did not wish to believe possible ; and it was brought 
about in such a way that he did not see how he could 
escape it. He might refuse Phillis ; but Balzajette ? 
A colleague called him in consultation, and why should 
he not go ? Had he foreseen this blow he would have 
left Paris until the trial was over, but he was taken 
unawares. What could he say to justify a sudden 
absence ? He had no mother or brothers who might 
send for him, and with whom he would be obliged to 
remain. Besides, he wished to go to court ; and since 
his testimony would carry considerable weight with the 
jury, it was his duty to be present on account of 
Florentin. It would be a contemptible cowardice to 
fail in this duty, and more, it would be an imprudence. 
In the eyes of the world he must appear to have 
nothing to fear, and this assurance, this confidence in 
himself, was one of the conditions of his safety. Now, 
if he went to court, and from every point of view it was 
impossible that he should not go, he would meet Mme. 
Dammauville, since she intended to be carried there if 
she were unable to go in any other way. Whether it 
was at her house, or at the Palais de Justice, the meet- 
ing was then certain, and in spite of what he had done, 
circumstances stronger than his will had prepared it 


Conscience. 


255 


and brought it about ; nothing that he could do would 
prevent it. 

The only question that deserved serious consider- 
ation just now was to know where this meeting would 
be the least dangerous for him — at Mme. Dammauville’s 
or at the Palais ? 

He reflected silently, paying no more attention to 
Phillis than if she were not present, his eyes fixed, his 
brow contracted, his lips tightly closed, when the door- 
bell rang. As Joseph was at his post, Saniel did not 
move. 

“ If it is a patient,” Phillis said, who did not wish to 
go yet, “ I will wait in the dining-room.” 

And she rose. 

Before she could leave the room, Joseph entered. 

“ Dr. Balzajette,” he said. 

“ You see ! ” Phillis cried. 

Without replying, Saniel made a sign to Joseph to 
admit Dr. Balzajette, and while Phillis silently disap- 
peared, he went towards the parlor. 

Balzajette came forward with both hands extended. 

“ Good-day, my young confrire. I am enchanted to 
meet you.” 

The reception was benevolent, amicable, and pro- 
tecting, and Saniel replied at his best. 

“Since we met the other day,” Balzajette continued, 
“ I have thought of you. And nothing more natural 
than that, for you inspired me with a quick sympathy. 
The first time you came to see me you pleased me 
immediately, and I told you you would make your way. 
Do you remember ? ” 

Assuredly he remembered ; and of all the visits that 


256 


Conscience. 


he made to the doctors and druggists of his quarter, that 
to Balzajette was the hardest. It was impossible to 
show more pride, haughtiness, and disdain than Balza- 
jette had put into his reception of the then unknown 
young man. 

“ I told you what I thought of you,” continued Balza- 
jette. “ It is with regard to this patient of whom you 
spoke to me ; you remember ? ” 

“ Mme. Dammauville ? ” 

“ Exactly. I put her on her feet, as I told you, but 
since then this bad weather has compelled her to take 
to her bed again. Without doubt, it is only an affair of 
a few days ; but in the meantime, the poor woman is 
irritable and impatient. You know women, young 
confrere. To calm this impatience, I spontaneously 
proposed a consultation, and naturally pronounced your 
name, which is well known by your fine work on the 
medullary lesions. I supported it, as was proper, with 
the esteem that it has acquired, and I have the satis- 
faction to see it accepted.” 

Saniel thanked him as if he believed in the perfect 
sincerity of this spontaneous proposition. 

“I like the young, and whenever an occasion pre- 
sents itself, I shall be happy to introduce you to my 
clientage. For Mme. Dammauville, what day can you 
go with me to see her ? ” 

As Saniel appeared to hesitate, Balzajette, mistaking 
the cause of his silence, persisted. 

“ She is impatient,” he said. “ Let us go the first day 
that is possible.” 

He must reply, and in these conditions a refusal 
would be inexplicable. 


Conscience. 


257 


“ Will to-morrow suit you ? ” he asked. 

“ To-morrow, by all means. At what hour ? ” 

Before replying, Saniel went to his desk and consulted 
an almanac, which appeared perfectly ridiculous to 
Balzajette. 

Does he imagine, the young confrere., that I am 
going to believe his time so fully occupied that he 
must make a special arrangement to give me an hour ? ” 

But it was not an arrangement of this kind that 
Saniel sought. His almanac gave the rising and the 
setting of the sun, and it was the exact hour of sunset 
that he wished : “ 26 March, 6 h. 20 m.” At this 
moment it would not be dark enough at Mme. Dam- 
mauville's for the lamps to be lighted, and yet it would 
be dark enough to prevent her from seeing him clearly 
in the uncertain light of evening. 

“ Will a quarter past six suit you ? I will call for 
you at six o’clock.” 

“ Very well. Only I shall ask you to be very exact ; 
I have a dinner at seven o’clock in the Rue Royale.” 

Saniel promised promptness. This dinner was a 
favorable circumstance, which would enable him to 
escape from Mme. Dammauville’s before the lamps 
would be lighted. 

When Balzajette was gone, he rejoined Phillis in the 
dining-room. 

consultation is arranged for to-morrow at six 
o’clock, at Mme. Dammauville’s.” 

She threw herself on his breast. 

“ I knew that you would forgive me.” 


17 


XI. 




It was not without emotion that the next day Saniel 
saw the afternoon slip away, and although he worked 
to employ his time, he interrupted himself at each 
instant to look at the clock. 

Sometimes he found the time passing quickly, and 
then all at once it seemed to stand still. 

This agitation exasperated him, for calmness had 
never been more necessary than at this moment. A 
danger was before him, and it was only in being master 
of himself that he could be saved. He must have the 
coolness of a surgeon during an operation, the glance 
of a general in a battle ; and the coolness and the 
glance were not found among the nervous and agi- 
tated. 

Could he escape from this danger ? 

This was the question that he asked himsel'f unceas- 
ingly, although he knew the uselessness of it. What 
good was it, to study the chances for or against him ? 

Either he had succeeded in rendering himself un- 
recognizable or he had not ; but it was done, and now 
he could do nothing more. He did the best he could 
in choosing an hour when the dim evening light put 
the chances on his side ; for the rest, he must trust to 
Fortune. 

All day he studied the sky, because for the success 
of his plan it must be neither too bright nor too dark : if 


Conscience. 


259 


it were too bright Mme. Dammauville could see him 
clearly ; if it were too dark the lamps would be lighted. 
He remembered that it was by lamplight she had seen 
him. Until evening the weather was uncertain, with a 
sky sometimes sunny, sometimes cloudy ; but at this 
hour the clouds were driven away by a wind from the 
north, and the weather became decidedly cold, with 
the pink and pale clearness of the end of March when 
it still freezes. 

On examining himself he had the satisfaction to feel 
that he was calmer than in the morning, and that as 
the moment of attack approached, his agitation de- 
creased ; decision, firmness, and coolness came to him ; 
he felt master of his will, and capable of obeying it. 

At six o’clock precisely he rang at Balzajette’s door, 
and they started immediately for the Rue Sainte-Anne. 
Happy to have a complaisant listener, Balzajette did 
all the talking, so that Saniel had only to reply “ yes ” 
or “no” from time to time, and of course it was not 
of Mme. Dammauville that he talked, but of various 
matters — of a first representation on the previous even- 
ing at the Opera Comique ; of politics ; of the next 
salon. 

At exactly a quarter past six they reached the house 
in the Rue Sainte-Anne, where Saniel had not been 
since Caffi^’s death. On passing the old concierge’s 
lodge he felt satisfied with himself ; his heart did not 
beat too quickly, his ideas were firm and clear. Should 
danger arrive, he felt assured of mastery over him- 
self, without excitement, as without brutality. 

Balzajette rang the bell, and the door was opened by 
a maid, who was, evidently, placed in the vestibule to 


26 o 


Conscience. 


await their arrival. Balzajette entered first, and Saniel 
followed him, giving a hasty glance at the rooms 
through which they passed. They reached a door at 
which Balzajette knocked twice. 

Enter,” replied a feminine voice in a firm tone. 

This was the decisive moment ; the day was every- 
thing that could be wished, neither too light nor too 
dark. What would Mme. Dammauville’s first glance 
mean ? 

My confrlre^ Dr. Saniel,” Balzajette announced on 
going towards Mme. Dammauville, and taking her 
hand. 

She was lying on the little bed of which Phillis had 
spoken, but not against the windows, rather in the 
middle of the room, placed there evidently after the 
experience of a sick person who knows that to be ex- 
amined she must be easily seen. 

Profiting by this arrangement, Saniel immediately 
passed between the bed and the windows in such a 
way that the daylight was behind him, and conse- 
quently his face was in shadow. This was done natur- 
ally, without affectation, and it seemed that he only took 
this side of the bed because Balzajette took the other. 

Directed by Saniel, the examination commenced 
with a clearness and a precision that pleased Balza- 
jette. He did not lose himself in idle words, the young 
confrere^ any more than in useless details. He went 
straight to the end, only asking and seeking the indis- 
pensable ; and as Mme. Dammauville’s replies were as 
precise as Saniel’s questions, while listening and putting 
in a word from time to time he said to himself that 
his dinner would not be delayed, which was the chief 


Conscience. 


261 


point of his preoccupation. Decidedly, be understood 
life, the young confrere ; he might be called in consul- 
tation ; with his heavy appearance and careless toilet, 
there was no danger of rivalry. 

However, when Mme. Dammauville began to com- 
plain of being sensitive to cold, Balzajette found that 
Saniel let her lose herself in minute details. 

“ Have you always been sensitive to cold ? ” 

‘‘Yes ; and with a deplorable disposition to take cold 
if the temperature is lowered one or two degrees.’' 

“ Did you exercise in the open air ? ” 

“Very little.” 

“ Were you ever advised to try affusions of cold 
water ? ” 

“ I should have not been able to bear it.” 

“ I must tell you,” Balzajette interrupted, “ that 
before occupying this old house that belongs to her, 
Mme. Dammauville lived in a more modern apartment 
which was heated by a furnace, and where conse- 
quently it was easier to maintain an even temperature 
to which she was accustomed.” 

“On coming to live in this house, where it is not 
possible to have a furnace,” Mme. Dammauville con- 
tinued, “ I employed every means to shelter me from 
the cold, which I am sure is my great enemy. You can 
see that I have had weather-strips put at the doors, as 
well as at the windows.” 

In spite of this invitation and the gesture which 
accompanied it, Saniel was careful not to turn his head 
towards the window ; he kept his face in the shadow, 
contenting himself with looking at the door which was 
opposite to him. 


262 


Conscience. 


‘‘At the same time,” she continued, “ I had hangings 
put on the walls, carpets on the floors, thick curtains at 
the windows and doors, and in spite of the large fire in 
my fire-place, often I am unable to get warm.” 

“ Do you also have a fire in this little stove ? ” Saniel 
asked, pointing to a small movable stove at the corner 
of the fire-place. 

“ Only at night, so that my servants need not get up 
every hour to replenish the fire in the chimney. The fire 
is made in the evening just before I go to sleep ; the pipe 
is placed in the chimney, and it maintains sufficient heat 
until morning.” 

“ I think it will be expedient to suppress this mode of 
heating, which must be very inconvenient,” Saniel said ; 
“ and my confrire and myself will consider the question 
whether it will net be possible to give you the heat you 
need with this chimney, without fatiguing your servants, 
and without waking you too often to take care of the 
fire. But let us continue.” 

When he reached the end of his questions he rose to 
examine the patient on her bed, but without turning 
round, and in such a way as to still keep his back to 
the light. 

As little by little the reflection of the setting sun 
faded, Balzajette proposed asking for a lamp : without 
replying too hastily, Saniel refused ; it was useless, the 
daylight was sufficient. 

They passed into the parlor, where they very quickly 
came to an amicable conclusion, for at everything that 
Saniel said Balzajette replied : 

“ I am happy to see that you partake of my opinion. 
That is it. Truly, that is so ! ” 


Conscience. 


263 


And, besides, each had his reasons for hurrying — 
Saniel, for fear of the lamps ; Balzajette, uneasiness for 
his dinner. The diagnosis and the treatment were 
rapidly settled ; Saniel proposed, Balzajette approved. 
The question of the movable stove was decided-in two 
words : for the night a grate would be placed in the 
chimney ; a fire of coal covered with damp coal-dust 
would keep the fire until morning. 

“ Let us return,” Balzajette said, who took the 
initiative and decided on all material things. 

Saniel, who kept his eyes on the windows, was calm ; 
it was yet too light to need lamps ; besides, during their 
tHe-a-tete., no servant had crossed the salon to enter 
Mme. Dammauville’s room. 

But when Balzajette opened the door to return to 
the patient, a flood of light filled the parlor and 
enveloped them. A lamp with a shade was placed on 
the little table near the bed, and two other lighted 
lamps with globes were on the mantel, reflecting their 
light in the mirror. How had he not foreseen that 
there was another door into Mme. Dammauville’s room 
besides the door from the parlor ? But if he had fore- 
seen it, it would not have lessened the danger of the 
situation. He would have had time to prepare himself, 
that was all. But to prepare himself for what ? Either 
to enter the room and brave this danger, or to fly. He 
entered. 

This is what we have decided,” Balzajette said, who 
never lost an occasion to put himself forward and to 
speak. 

While he spoke, Mme. Dammauville seemed not to 
listen to him. Her eyes were on Saniel, placed between 


264 


Conscience. 


her and the chimney with his back to the lamps, and 
she looked at him with a characteristic fixedness. 

Balzajette, who listened to himself, observed nothing ; 
but Saniel, who knew what there was behind this glance, 
could not but be struck with it. Happily for him, he 
had only to let Balzajette talk, for if he had spoken he 
would surely have betrayed himself by the quivering of 
his voice. 

However, Balzajette seemed coming to the end of his 
explanations. All at once Saniel saw Mme. Dammau- 
ville extend her hand towards the lamp on the table, and 
raise the shade by lowering it towards her in such a 
way as to form a reflector that threw the light on him. 
At the same time he received a bright ray full on his 
face. 

Mme. Dammauville uttered a small, stifled cry. 

Balzajette stopped ; then his astonished eyes went 
from Mme. Dammauville to Saniel, and from Saniel to 
Mme. Dammauville. 

“ Are you suffering ? ” he asked. 

‘‘Not at all.” 

What, then, was the matter ? But it was seldom that 
he asked for an explanation of a thing that astonished 
him, preferring to divine and to explain it himself. 

“ Ah ! I understand,” he said with a satisfied smile. 
“ The youth of my young confrere astonishes you. It 
is his fault. Why the devil did he have his long hair 
and his light curled beard cut ? ” 

If Mme. Dammauville had not released the lamp- 
shade, she would have seen Saniel turn pale and his lips 
quiver. 

“ Mais voila I ” continued Balzajette. “He made this 


Conscience. 


265 


sacrifice to his new functions ; the student has disap- 
peared before the professor.” 

He might have continued a long time. Neither Mme. 
Dammauville nor Saniel listened to him ; but, thinking 
of his dinner, he was not going to launch into a dis- 
course that at any other moment he would not have 
failed to undertake. He rose to go. 

As Saniel bowed, Mme. Dammauville stopped him 
with a movement of her hand. 

“ Did you not know this unfortunate who was assas- 
sinated opposite ? ” she asked, pointing to the windows. 

So serious as was an acknowledgment, Saniel could 
not answer in the negative. 

“ I was called in to prove hif death,” he said. 

And he took several steps towards the door, but she 
stopped him again. 

Had you business with him ? ” she asked. 

I saw him several times. ” 

Balzajette cut short this conversation, which was idle 
talk to him. 

‘‘ Good evening, dear madame. I will see you to- 
morrow, but not in the morning, for I go to the country 
at six o’clock, and shall not return until noon.” 




XII. 

“Did you observe how I cut the conversation 
short ?” Balzajette said, as they went down-stairs. “ If 
you listen to women they will never let you go. I can- 
not imagine why she spoke to you of this assassinated 
man, can you ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I believe that this assassination has affected her 
brain to a certain point. In any case, it has given her a 
horror of this house.” 

He continued thus without Saniel listening to what 
he said. On reaching the Rue Neuve-des-Petits- 
Champs, Balzajette hailed a passing cab. 

“You have had the kindness to not delay me,” he 
said, pressing the hand of his young confr'tre^ “ but I 
feel that I must hurry. Au revoirT 

A good riddance ! This babbling gave Saniel the 
vertigo. 

He must recover himself, look the situation in the 
face, and consider that which might, which must, 
happen. 

The situation was plain ; Mme. Dammauville’s cry 
revealed it. When the lamplight struck him full in the 
face, she found in him the man whom she had seen draw 
Caffi^’s curtains. If, in her amazement, she at first 
refused to believe it, her questions regarding Caffie, and 
Balzajette’s explanations about his hair and beard. 


Conscience. 


267 


destroyed her hesitation and replaced doubt by the 
horror of certainty. He was the assassin ; she knew it, 
she had seen him. And such as she revealed herself to 
him, it seemed that she was not the woman to challenge 
the testimony of her eyes, and to let the strength of her 
memory be shaken by simple denials, supported by 
Balzajette’s words. 

With a vivid clearness he saw to the bottom of the 
abyss open before him ; but what he did not see was in 
what way she would push him into this giddy whirlpool, 
that is, to whom she would reveal the discovery that she 
had made. To Phillis, to Balzajette, or to the judge ? 

It was almost a relief to think that for this evening, 
at least, it would not be to Phillis, for at this moment 
she should be at his rooms, anxiously awaiting his 
return. He felt a sadness and a revulsion at the 
thought that she might be the first to learn the truth. 
He did not wish that, and he would prevent it. 

This preoccupation gave him an object ; he reached 
the Rue Louis-le-Grand thinking more of Phillis than 
of himself. What distress when she should know all ! 
How could she support this blow, and with what senti- 
ments would it inspire her, with what judgment for the 
man whom she loved ? Poor girl ! He grew tender at 
the thought. As for him, he was lost, and it was his 
fault ; he bore the penalty of his own stupidity. But 
Phillis — it would be a blow to her love that she must 
bear. And what a blow to this sensitive heart, to this 
proud and noble soul ! 

Perhaps he would now see her for the last time, for 
this one hour, and never again. Then he would be 
kind to her, and leave her a memory that, later, would 

17 


268 


Conscience. 


be an alleviation to her sorrow, a warm, bright ray in 
her time of mourning. During these last few days he 
had been hard, brutal, irritable, strange, and with her 
habitual serenity she had overlooked it all. When he 
pushed her from him with his heavy hand, she had 
kissed this hand, fastening on him her beautiful, tender 
eyes, full of passionate caresses. He must make her 
forget that, and she must carry from their last inter- 
view a tender impression that would sustain her. 

What could he do for her ? He remembered how 
happy she had been at their impromptu dinners six 
months before, and he would give her this same pleas- 
ure. He would see her happy again, and near her, 
under her glance, perhaps he would forget to-morrow. 

He went to the caterer who furnished him with 
breakfast, and ordered two dinners to be sent to his 
rooms immediately. 

Before he could put the key in the lock, his door 
was opened by Phillis, who recognized his step on the 
landing. 

“ Well ? ” 

Your brother is saved.” 

“ Mme. Dammauville will go to court ?” 

“ I promise you that he is saved.” 

“ By you ? ” 

“ Yes, by me — exactly.” 

In her access of jo^, she did not notice the accent 
on these last words. 

“ Then you forgive me ? ” 

He took her in his arms, and kissing her with deep 
emotion, said : 

With all my heart, I swear it ! ” 


Conscience. 


269 


“You see it was written that you should go to Mme. 
Dammauville, in spite of yourself, in spite of all ; it 
was providential.” 

“ It is certain that your friend Providence could not 
interfere more opportunely in my affairs.” 

This time she was struck by the tone of his voice ; 
but she imagined that it was only this allusion to 
superior intervention that had vexed him. 

“ It was of ourselves that I thought,” she said, “ not 
of you.” 

“ I understood. But do not let us talk of that ; you 
are happy, and I do not wish to shadow your joy. On 
the contrary, I thought to associate myself with it by 
giving you a surprise : we are going to dine together.” 

“ O dearest ! ” she exclaimed, trembling, “ how good 
you are ! I will set the table,” she added joyously, “ and 
you light the fire ; for we must have a bright fire to 
enliven us and to keep our dinner warm. What have 
you ordered ? ” 

“ I do not know ; two dinners.” 

“So much the better ! We will have surprises. We 
will leave the dishes covered before the fire, and we 
will take them anyhow. Perhaps we shall eat the roast 
before the entr^e^ but that will be all the more funny.” 

Light, quick, busy, graceful, and charming, she came 
and went around the table. 

When the dinner came, the table was ready, and they 
sat down opposite to each other. 

“ What happiness to be alone ! ” she said. “ To be 
able to talk and to look at each other freely ! ” 

He looked at her with a tenderness in his eyes that 
she had never before seen, with a depth of serious 


270 


Conscience. 


contemplation that overwhelmed her. From time to 
time little cries of happiness escaped her. 

“Oh ! Dearest, dearest ! ” she muitnured. 

Yet she knew him too well not to see that a cloud of 
sadness often veiled, these eyes full of love, and that, 
also, they were often without any expression, as if they 
looked within. Suddenly she became quiet ; but she 
could not long remain silent when she was uneasy. 
Why this melancholy at such a moment ? 

“ What a difference between this dinner,” she said, 
“ and those of the end of October ! At that time you 
were harassed by the most trying difficulties, at war 
with creditors, menaced on all sides, without hope ; 
and now all is smooth. No more creditors, no more 
struggles. The cares that I brought you are nearly at 
an end. Life opens easy and glorious. The end that 
you pursued is reached ; you have only to walk straight 
before you, bold and proud. And yet there is a sadness 
in your face that torments me. What is the matter ? 
Speak, I beg you ! To whom should you confess, if 
not to the woman who adores you ? ” 

He looked at her a long time without replying, askr 
ing himself if, for the peace of his own heart, this con- 
fession would not be better than silence ; but courage 
failed him, pride closed his lips. 

“What should be the matter?” he said. “If my 
face is sad, it does not indicate faithfully what I feel ; 
for what I feel at this moment is an ineffable senti- 
ment of tenderness for you, an inexpressible gratitude 
for your love, and for the happiness that you have 
given me. If I have been happy in my rough and 
struggling life, it is through you. What I have had of 



iWJ 



8 1) 


i 


1 It 

♦ 









Conscience. 


271 


joy, confidence, hope, memories, I owe to you ; and if 
we had not met I should have the right to say that 1 
have been the most miserable among the miserable. 
Whatever happens to us, remember these words, my 
darling, and bury them in the depths of your heart,' 
where you will find them some day when you would 
judge me.” 

“ To judge you — I ! ” 

“You love me, therefore you do not know me. But 
the hour will come when you will wish to know exactly 
the man whom you have loved ; when that time comes 
remember this evening.” 

“ It is too radiant for me to forget it.” 

“Whatever it may be, remember it. Life is so 
fragile and so ephemeral a thing, that it is beautiful 
to be able to concentrate it, to sum it up by remem- 
brance, in one hour that marks it and gives it its scope. 
Such an hour is this one, which passes while I speak to 
you with deep sincerity.” 

Phillis was not accustomed to these dans., for, in 
the rare effusions to which he sometimes abandoned 
himself, Saniel always observed a certain reserve, 
as if he feared to commit himself, and to let her read 
his whole nature. Many times he rallied her when 
she became sentimental, as he said, and chantait sa 
romance;** and now he himself sang it — this romance 
of love. 

As great as was her happiness to listen to him, she 
could not help feeling an uneasy astonishment, and 
asked herself under what melancholy impression he 
found himself at this moment. 

He read her too well not to divine this uneasiness. 


272 


Conscience. 


Not wishing to betray himself, he brought a smile to his 
eyes, and said : 

“ You do not recognize me, do you ? I am sure you 
are asking yourself if I am not ill.” 

‘ “ O dearest, do not jest, and do not stiffen your- 

self against the sentiment that makes such sweet music 
on your lips ! I am happy, so happy, to hear you speak 
thus, that I would like to see your happiness equal to 
mine ; to dissipate the dark cloud that veils your glance. 
Will you never abandon yourself? At this hour, above 
all, when everything sings and laughs within us as 
about us ! Nothing was .more natural than that you 
should be sad six months ago ; but to-day what more 
do you want to make you happy ? ” 

“ Nothing, it is true.” 

“ Is not the present the radiant morning of a glori- 
ous future ? ” 

“ What will you ? There are sad physiognomies as 
there are happy ones ; mine is not yours. But let us 
talk no more of that, nor of the past, nor of the future ; 
let us talk of the present.” 

He rose, and taking her in his arms, made her sit 
next to him on the sofa. 

The sound of the door-bell made Saniel jump as if 
he had received an electric shock. 

‘‘You will not open the door?” Phillis said. “ Do 
not let any one take our evening from us.” 

But soon another ring, more decided, brought him 
to his feet. 

“ It is better to know,” he said, and he went to open 
the door, leaving Phillis in his office. 

A maid handed him a letter. 


Conscience. 


273 


“ From Mme. Dammauville,” she said ; “there is an 
answer.” 

He left her in the vestibule, and returned to his 
office to read the letter. The dream had not lasted 
long ; reality seized him with its pitiless hands. This 
letter, certainly, would announce the blow that menaced 
him. 

“ If Dr. Saniel is disengaged, I beg that he will come to see 
me this evening on an urgent affair ; I will wait for him until ten 
o’clock. If not, I count on seeing him to-morrow morning after 
nine o’clock. 

“A. Dammauville.” 

He returned to the vestibule. 

“ Say to Mme. Dammauville that I will be with her 
in a quarter of an hour.” 

When he re-entered the office he found Phillis before 
the glass, putting on her hat. 

“ I heard,” she said. “What a disappointment! 
But I cannot wish you to stay, since it is for Florentin 
that you leave me.” 

As she walked towards the door he stopped her. 

“ Embrace me once more.” 

Never had he pressed her in such a long and passion- 
ate embrace. 


XIIT. 

Saniel had not a second of doubt ; Mme. Dam- 
mauville did not wish a professional visit from him. 
She wished to speak to him of Caffie, and, in the com- 
ing crisis, he said to himself that perhaps it was fortu- 
nate that it was so ; at least he would be first to know 
I5 


274 


Conscience. 


what she had decided to do, and he could defend 
himself. Nothing is hopeless as long as a struggle is 
possible. 

He rang the bell with a firm hand, and the door was 
opened by the maid who brought the letter. With a 
small lamp in her hand, she conducted him through 
the dining-room and the parlor to Mme. Dammauville’s 
bedroom. 

At the threshold, a glance showed him that some 
changes had been made in the arrangement of the 
furniture. The small bed on which he had seen Mme. 
Dammauville was placed between the two windows, 
and she was lying in a large bed with canopy and cur- 
tains. Near her was a table on which were a shaded 
lamp, some books, a blotting-book, a tea-pot, and a 
cup ; on the white quilt rested an unusually long bell- 
rope, so that she might pull it without moving. The 
fire in the chimney was out, but the movable stove sent 
out a heat that denoted it was arranged for the night. 

Saniel felt the heat, and mechanically unbuttoned 
his overcoat. 

“ If the heat is uncomfortable, will you not remove 
your overcoat ? ” Mme. Dammauville said. 

While he disposed of it and his hat, placing them 
on a chair by the fire-place, he heard Mme. Dammau- 
ville say to her maid : 

Remain in the parlor, and tell the cook not to go 
to bed.” 

What did this mean ? Was she afraid that he would 
cut her throat ? 

“Will you come close to my bed ? ” she said. “ It is 
important that we should talk without raising our voices.” 


Conscience. 


275 


He took a chair and seated himself at a certain dis- 
tance from the bed, and in such a way that he was 
beyond the circle of light thrown by the lamp. Then 
he waited. 

A moment of silence, which he found terribly long, 
slipped away before she spoke. 

“You know,” she said at last, “how I saw, accident- 
ally, from this place ” — she pointed to one of the win- 
dows — “ the face of the assassin of my unfortunate 
tenant, M. Caffie.” 

“Mile. Cormier has told me,” he replied in a tone 
of ordinary conversation. 

“ Perhaps you are astonished that at such a distance 
I saw the face clearly enough to recognize it after five 
months, as if it were still before me.” 

“ It is extraordinary.” 

“ Not for those who have a memory for faces and 
attitudes ; with me this memory has always been 
strongly developed. I remember the playmates of my 
childhood, and I see them as they were at six and ten 
years of age, without the slightest confusion in my 
mind.” 

“ The impressions of childhood are generally vivid 
and permanent.” 

“ This persistency does not only apply to my childish 
impressions. To-day, I neither forget nor confound a 
physiognomy. Perhaps if I had had many acquaint- 
ances, and if I had seen a number of persons every day, 
there might be some confusion in my mind ; but such is 
not the case. My delicate health has obliged me to 
lead a very quiet life, and I remember every one whom 
I have met. When I think of such-a-one, it is not of 


276 


Conscience. 


the name at first, but of the physiognomy. Each time 
that I have been to the Senate or to the Chamber, I did 
not need to ask the names of the deputies or senators 
who spoke ; I had seen their portraits and I recognized 
them. If I go into these details it is because they are 
of great importance, as you will see.” 

It was not necessary for her to point out their impor- 
tance ; he understood her only too well. 

“ In fine, I am thus,” she continued. “ It is, therefore, 
not astonishing that the physiognomy and the attitude 
of the man who drew the curtains in M. Caffie’s office 
should not leave my memory. You admit this, do you 
not ? ” 

“Since you consult me, I must tell you that the 
operations of the memory are not as simple as people 
imagine. They comprise three things : the conservation 
of certain states, their reproduction and localization in 
the past, which should be reunited to constitute the per- 
fect memory. Now this reunion does not always take 
place, and often the third is lacking.” 

“ I do not grasp your meaning very well. But what 
is the third thing ? ” 

“ Recognition.” 

“ Well, I can assure you that in this case it is not 
lacking ! ” 

The action beginning in this way, it was of the utmost 
importance for Saniel that he should throw doubts in 
Mme. Dammauville’s mind, and should lead her to 
believe that this memory of which she felt so sure 
was not, perhaps, as strong or as perfect as she im- 
agined. 

“ It is,” he said, “ exactly that this third thing is the 


Conscience. 


277 


most delicate, the most complex, of the three, since it 
supposes, besides the state of consciousness, some 
secondary states variable in number and in degree 
which, grouped around it, determine it.” 

Mme. Dammauville remained silent a moment, and 
Saniel saw that she made an elfort to explain these 
obscure words to herself. 

“I do not understand,” she said at last. 

This was exactly what he wished ; yet, as it would 
not be wise to let her believe that he desired to deceive 
or confuse her, he thought he might be a little more 
precise. 

“ I wish to ask,” he said, “ if you are certain that in 
the mechanism of the vision and that of the recog- 
nition, which is a vision of the past, there is no con- 
fusion ? ” 

She drew a long breath, evidently satisfied to get rid 
of these subtleties that troubled her. 

“ It is exactly because I admit the possibility of this 
confusion, at least in part, that I sent for you,” she 
said, ‘‘ in order that you might establish it.” 

Saniel appeared not to comprehend. 

“ I, madame ? ” 

“ Yourself. When you came here with M. Balzajette 
a few hours ago, you must have observed that I exam- 
ined you in a way that was scarcely natural. Before 
the lamps were lighted, and when you turned your 
back to the daylight, I tried in vain to remember 
where I had seen you. I was certain that I found in 
you some points of resemblance with a physiognomy I 
had known, but the name attached to this physiognomy 
escaped me. When you returned, and I saw you more 


Conscience. 


278 


clearly by lamp-light, my recollections became more 
exact ; when I raised the lamp-shade the light struck 
you full in the face, and then your eyes, so character- 
istic, and at the same time a violent contraction of your 
features, made me recall the name. This physiognomy, 
these eyes, this face, belonged to the man that from 
this place ” — she pointed to the window — “ I saw draw 
M. Caffie’s curtains.” 

Saniel did not flinch. 

“ This is a resemblance that would be hard for me,” 
he said, “if your memory were faithful.” 

“ I tell myself that it may not be. And after the first 
feeling of surprise which made me cry out, I was con- 
firmed in this thought on recalling the fact that you did 
not wear the long hair and blond beard that the man 
wore who drew the curtains ; but just at that moment 
M. Balzajette spoke of the hair and beard that you had 
had cut. I was prostrated. However, I had the strength 
to ask if you had had any business with M. Cafiie. Do 
you remember your answer ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ After your departure I experienced a cruel anguish. 
It was you whom I had seen draw the curtains, and it 
could not be you. I tried to think what I ought to do — 
to inform the judge or to ask you for an interview. 
For a long time I wavered. At length I decided on 
the interview, and I wrote to you.” 

“ I have comeat your call, but I declare that I do not 
know what to reply to this strange communication. 
You believe that you recognize in me the man who 
drew the curtains.” 

“ I recognize you.” 


Conscience. 


279 


“ Then what do you wish me to say ? It is not a 
consultation that you ask of me ? ” 

She believed she understood the meaning of this 
reply and divined its end. 

“ The question does not concern me,” she said, 
“ neither my moral nor mental state, but yourself. My 
eyes, my memory, my conscience, bring a frightful 
accusation against you. I cannot believe my eyes or 
my memory. I challenge my conscience, and I ask you 
to reduce this accusation to nothing.” 

“ And how, madame ? ” 

Oh, not by protestations ! ” 

“ How can you expect that a man in my position 
will lower himself to discuss accusations that rest on an 
hallucination ? ” 

“ Do you believe that I have hallucinations ? If you 
do, call one of your confrlres to-morrow in consulta- 
tion. If he believes as you do, I will submit ; if not, I 
shall be convinced that I saw clearly, and I shall act 
accordingly.” 

“ If you saw clearly, madame, and I am ready to con- 
cede this to you, it proves that there is some one some- 
where who is my double.” 

“ I said this to myself ; and it is exactly this idea that 
made me write to you. I wished to give you the oppor- 
tunity of proving that you could not be this man.” 

“You will agree that it is difficult for me to admit a 
discussion on such an accusation.” 

“ One may find one’s self accused by a concourse of 
fatal circumstances, and be not less innocent. Witness 
the unfortunate boy imprisoned for five months for a 
crime of which he is not guilty. And I pass from your 


28 o 


Conscience. 


innocence as from his, to ask you to prove that the 
charges against you are false.” 

“ There are no charges against me.” 

“ There may be ; that depends upon yourself. Your 
hair and beard may have been cut at the time of the 
assassination ; in that case it is quite certain that the 
man I saw was not you, and that I am the victim of an 
hallucination. Were they or were they not ?” 

“ They were not ; it is only a few days since I had 
them cut on account of a contagious disease.” 

“It may be,” she continued, without appearing to be 
impressed by this explanation, “ that the day of the 
assassination, at the hour when I saw you, you were 
occupied somewhere in such a way that you can prove 
you could not have been in the Rue Sainte-Anne, and 
that I was the victim of an hallucination. And again, 
it may be that at that time your position was not that of 
a man at the last extremity, forced to crime by misery 
or ambition, and that consequently you had no inter- 
est in committing the crime of a desperate man. What 
do I know ? Twenty other means of defence may be 
in your hands.” 

“You cited the example of this poor boy who is 
imprisoned, although innocent. Would it not be appli- 
cable to me if you did not recognize the error of your 
eyes or of your memory ? Would he not be condemned 
without your testimony ? Would I not be if I do not 
find one that destroys your accusation ? And I see no 
one from whom I can ask this testimony. Have you 
thought of the infamy with which such an accusation 
will cover me ? If I repel it, and I shall repel it, will it 
not have dishonored me, lost me forever ? ” 


Conscience. 


281 


“ It is just because I thought of this that I sent for 
you, to the end that by an explanation that you would 
give, it seemed to me, you would prevent me from 
informing the judge of this accusation. This explana- 
tion you do not give me ; I must now think only of him 
whose innocence is proved for me, and take his side 
against him whose guilt is not less proved. To-morrow 
I shall inform the judge.” 

“You will not do that ! ” 

“ My duty compels me to ; and whatever might come, 
I have always done my duty. For me, in this horrible 
affair, there is the cause of the innocent and of the 
guilty, and I place myself on the side of the innocent.” 

“ I can prove to you that it was an aberration of 
vision ” 

“ You will prove it to the judge ; the law will appre- 
ciate it.” 

He rose brusquely. She put her hand on the bell- 
cord. They looked at each other for a moment, and 
what their lips did not express their eyes said : 

“ I do not fear you ; my precautions are taken.” 

“That bell will not save you.” 

At last he spoke in a hoarse and quivering voice : 

“ To you the responsibility of whatever happens, 
madame.” 

“ I accept it before God,” she said, with a calm firm- 
ness. “ Defend yourself.” 

He went to the arm-chair on which he had placed 
his coat and hat, and bending down to take them, he 
noiselessly turned the draught of the stove. 

At the same time Mme. Dammauville pulled the bell- 
cord ; the maid opened the door of the salon. 

“Show Dr. Saniel to the door.” 


2^2 


Conscience. 


XIV. 

On returning to his room Saniel was very much cast 
down, and without lighting a candle, he threw himself 
on the divan, where he remained prostrated. 

The frightful part of the affair was the rapidity with 
which he condemned this poor woman to death, and 
without hesitation executed it. To save himself she 
must die ; she should die. This time the idea did not 
turn and deviate as in Caffie’s case. Is it not, then, only 
the first crime that costs, and in the path that he had 
entered, would he go on to the end sowing corpses 
behind him ? 

A shudder shook him from head to feet as he 
thought that this victim might not be the last that his 
safety demanded. When she threatened to warn the 
judge, he only saw this threat ; if she spoke he was 
lost ; he closed her mouth. But, had not this mouth 
opened before he closed it ? Had she not already 
spoken ? Before deciding on this interview she may 
have told all to some one of her friends, who, between 
the time of his departure with Balzajette and his 
return, might have visited her, or to some one for 
whom she had sent for advice. In that case, those 
also were condemned to death. 

A useless crime, or a series of crimes ? 

The horror that rose within him was so strong that 
he thought of running to the Rue Sainte-Anne ; he 
would awake the sleeping household, open the doors, 
break the windows, and save her. But between his 
departure and this moment the carbonic acid and the 
oxide of carbon had had time to produce asphyxiation. 


Conscience. 


283 


and certainly he would arrive after her death ; or, if 
he found her still living, some one would discover that 
the draught of the stove had been turned, and seeing 
it, he would betray himself as surely as by an avowal. 

After all, the maid might have discovered that the 
draught was turned, and in that case she was saved and 
he was lost. Chance would decide between them. 

There are moments when a shipwrecked man, tired 
of swimming, not knowing to which side to direct his 
course, without light, without guide, at the limit of 
strength and hope, floats on his back and lets himself 
be tossed by the waves, to rest and wait for light. This 
was his case ; he could do nothing but wait. 

He was not going to recommence the folly of wish- 
ing to see and know, as in Caffie’s case ; he would know 
the result soon enough, too soon. 

Rising, he lighted a candle, and paced up and down 
his apartment like a caged animal. Then it occurred to 
him that those underneath would hear his steps ; doubt- 
less they would remark this agitated march, would be 
surprised, and would ask an explanation. In his posi- 
tion he must take care to not give cause for any remark 
that could not be explained. He took off his boots 
and continued his walk. 

But why had she spoken to him of double weather 
strips at the doors and windows, of hangings on the 
walls, of thick curtains .? It was she who thus suggested 
to him the idea of the draught of the stove, which 
would not have come to him spontaneously. 

The night passed in such agitating thoughts ; at 
times the hours seemed to stand still, and again they 
flew with astounding rapidity. One moment the per- 


284 


Conscience. 


spiration fell from his forehead on his hands ; at an- 
other he felt frozen. 

When his windows grew light with the dawn, he 
threw himself prostrated and shuddering on the divan, 
and leaning on a cushion he perceived the odor of 
Phillis ; burying his head in it he remained motionless 
and slept. 

A ring of the bell woke him, horrified, frightened ; 
he did not know where he was. It was broad day- 
light, carriages rumbled through the street. A second 
ring sounded stronger, more violent. Shivering, he 
went to open the door, and recognized the maid who 
the previous evening brought him a letter from Mme. 
Dammauville. He did not need to question her : fate 
was on his side. His eyes became dim ; without seeing 
her he heard the maid explain why she had come. 

She had been to M. Balzajette, but he was in the 
country. Her mistress was nearly cold in her bed ; 
she neither spoke nor breathed, yet her face was pink. 

“ I will go with you.” 

He did not need to learn more. This rosy color, 
which has been observed in those asphyxiated by 
oxide of carbon, decided it. However, he questioned 
the maid. 

“ Nothing had occurred ; she had talked with the 
cook in the kitchen, who, near midnight, went to her 
room in the fifth story, and then she went to bed in a 
small room contiguous to that of her mistress. During 
the night she heard nothing ; in the morning she found 
her mistress in the state she mentioned, and immedi- 
ately went for M. Balzajette.” 

Continuing his questions, he wished to know what 


Conscience. 


285 


Mme. Dammauville did after the consultation with M. 
Balzajette. 

“ She dined as usual, but less than usual, eating 
almost nothing ; then she received a visit from one of 
her friends, who remained only a few minutes, before 
starting on a voyage.” 

This was what he dreaded : Mme. Dammauville 
might have told this friend. If this were so, his crime 
would be of no use to him ; where would it carry him ? 

After a few moments, and in a tone that he tried to 
render indifferent, he asked the name of this friend. 

“A friend of her childhood, Mme. Thezard, living 
at No. 9, in the Rue des Capucines, the wife of a 
consul.” 

Until he reached the house in the Rue Sainte-Anne 
he repeated this name and address to himself, which he 
could not write down, and which he must not forget, 
for it was from there now that the danger would come 
if Mme. Dammauville had spoken. 

It was a long time since he became habituated to the 
sight of death, but when he found himself in the pres- 
ence of this woman stretched on her bed as if she slept, 
a shiver seized him. 

Give me a mirror and a candle,” he said to the 
maid and the cook who stood at the door, not daring 
to enter. 

While they went in search of these things he walked 
over to the stove ; the draught remained as he had 
turned it on the previous evening ; he opened it and 
returned to the bed. 

His examination was not long ; she had succumbed 
to asphyxiation caused by the gas from the charcoal. 


286 


Conscience. 


Did it proceed from the construction of the stove, or 
from a defect in the chimney ? The inquest would de- 
cide this ; as for him, he could only prove the death. 

On leaving him the evening before, Phillis, uneasy, 
told him that she would come early in the morning to 
know what Mme. Dammauville wished. When he told 
her that she was dead she was prostrated with despair ; 
in that case Florentin was lost. He tried to reassure 
her, but without success. 

Nougarede, also, was in despair, and regretted that 
he had not proceeded otherwise. And he tried to reas- 
sure Phillis ; the prosecution rested on the button and 
the struggle that had torn it off. Saniel would destroy 
this hypothesis ; he counted on him. 

Saniel became, then, as he had been before the 
intervention of Mme. Dammauville, the supreme hope 
of Phillis and Mme. Cormier, and to encourage them he 
exaggerated the influence that his testimony would have. 

“ When I shall have demonstrated that there was no 
struggle, the hypothesis of the torn button will crumble 
by itself.” 

^‘And if it is sustained, how and with what shall we 
overthrow it ? ” 

If he had appeared as usual, she would have shared 
the confidence with which he tried to inspire her ; but 
since the death of Mme. Dammauville he was so 
changed, that she could not help being uneasy. Evi- 
dently it was Mme. Dammauville’s death that made 
him so gloomy and irritable that he would submit to no 
opposition. He saw the dangers of the situation that 
this death created for Florentin, and with his usual 
generosity he reproached himself for not having con- 


Conscience. 


287 


sented to take care of her sooner ; he would have saved 
her, certainly, as he had begun by demanding the 
removal of the stove, and Florentin would have been 
saved also. 

The day of the trial arrived without a word from 
Mme. Th^zard, which proved that Mme. Dammauville 
had said nothing to her friend. It was six months 
since the assassination occurred, and the affair had lost 
all interest for the Parisian public ; in the provinces it 
was still spoken of, but at Paris it was a thing of the 
past. There is no romance about a clerk who cuts the 
throat of his employer to rob him ; there is no woman 
in the case, no mystery. 

Saniel preferred that Phillis should remain at home 
with her mother, but in spite of his wishes and prayers 
she insisted on going to court. She must be there so 
that Florentin would see her and take courage ; he 
would defend himself better if she were there. 

He defended himself badly, or at least indifferently, 
like a man who gives up because he knows beforehand 
that whatever he may say will be useless. 

Until Saniel’s deposition the witnesses who testified 
were insignificant enough, and revealed nothing that 
was not already known ; only Valerius, with his preten- 
tions to a professional secret, which he developed 
slowly, amused the audience. This deposition Saniel 
made brief and exact, contenting himself with repeat- 
ing his report. But then NougarMe rose, and begged 
the president to ask the witness to explain the struggle 
which should have taken place between the victim and 
his assassin ; and the president, who had commenced by 
arguing, before the insistance of the defence, decided to 


288 


Conscience. 


ask this question. Then Saniel slowly explained how 
the position of the body in the arm-chair and his con- 
dition were scientific proof that there was no struggle. 

“This is an opinion,” said the president dryly; 
“the jury will appreciate it.” 

“Perfectly,” replied Nougarede, “and I intend to 
make the jury feel the weight that it carries on the 
authority of him who formulated it.” 

This phrase for effect was destined to invalidate in 
advance the contradictions that the prosecution would, 
he believed, raise against the testimony ; but nothing 
of the kind occurred, and Saniel could go and take 
his place beside Phillis without being called to the bar 
to sustain his opinion against a physician whpse scien- 
tific authority would be opposed to his. 

In default of Mme. Dammauville, Nougarede had 
summoned the concierge of the Rue Sainte-Anne, as 
well as the maid and the cook, who had heard their 
mistress say that the man who drew Caffie’s curtains 
did not resemble Florentin’s portrait ; but this was only 
gossip repeated by persons of no importance, who 
could not produce the effect of the coup de thddtre on 
which he had based his defence. 

When the advocate-general pronounced his address, 
it was evident why Saniel’s opinion on the absence of a 
struggle was not contradicted. Although the prosecu- 
tion believed in this struggle, it wished to abandon it 
a moment, having no need of this hypothesis to prove 
that the button had not been torn off on falling from 
a ladder ; it had been done in the act of assassination, 
in the effort made to cut the throat of the victim who 
had violently extended the right arm, and, by the shock 


Conscience. 


289 


to the suspenders, the button was torn off. The effect 
of Saniel’s deposition was destroyed, and that one 
produced by the testimony of Mme. Dammauville’s 
servants, far less strong, was also destroyed when the 
advocate-general proved that this gossip turned against 
the accused. She had seen, it was said, a man with 
long hair and curled beard, draw the curtains ; very 
well ! Does not this description apply to the accused ? 
To tell the truth, it was said that she did not recognize 
him in a portrait published by an illustrated paper. 
Well, it was because this portrait did not resemble 
him. Besides, was it possible to admit that a woman 
of Mme. Dammauville’s character would not have in- 
formed the judge if she had believed her testimony im- 
portant and decisive ? The proof that she considered 
it insignificant was the fact that she had kept silent. 

Nougarede’s eloquent appeal did not destroy these 
two arguments, any more than it effaced the impression 
produced by the money-lender relative to the theft of 
forty-five francs. The jury brought in a verdict of 
“guilty,” but without premeditation, and admitting 
extenuating circumstances. 

On hearing the decree that condemned Florentin to 
twenty years of forced labor, Phillis, half suffocated, 
clung to Saniel’s arm ; but he could not give her the 
attention he wished, for Brigard, who came to the trial 
to assist at the triumph of his disciple, accosted him. 

“ Receive my felicitations for your deposition, my 
dear friend ; it is an act of courage that does you 
honor. If this poor boy could have been saved, it 
would have been by you ; you may well say you are the 
man of conscience.” 

19 



PART THIRD. 

I. 

During the first years of his sojourn in Paris, Saniel 
had published in a Latin Quarter review an article on 
the “ Pharmacy of Shakespeare ” — the poison of Ham- 
let, and of Romeo and Juliet ; and although since his 
choice of medicine he read but little besides books of 
science, at that time he was obliged to study the plays 
of his author. From this study there lingered in his 
memory a phrase that for ten years had not risen to 
his lips, and which all at once forced itself upper- 
most in his mind with exasperating persistency. It was 
the words of Macbeth : 

“ Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep ; 

Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, , 

The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath. 

Balm of hurt minds.” 

He also had lost it, “ the innocent sleep, sore labor’s 
bath, balm of hurt minds.” He had never been a 
great sleeper ; at least he had accustomed himself to 
the habit, hard at first, of passing only a few hours in 
bed. But he employed these few hours well, sleeping 
as the weary sleep, hands clenched, without dreaming, 
waking, or moving ; and the thought that occupied his 


Conscmtce. 


291 


mind in the evening was with him on waking in the 
morning, not having been put to flight by others, any 
more than by dreams. 

After Cafiie's death this tranquil and refreshing sleep 
continued the same ; but suddenly, after Mme. Dam- 
mauville’s death, it became broken. 

At first it did not bother him. He did not sleep, so 
much the better ! He would work more. But one can 
no more work all the time than one can live without 
eating. Saniel knew better than any one that the life 
of every organ is composed of alternate periods of 
repose and activity, and he did not suppose that he 
would be able to work indefinitely without sleep. He 
only hoped that after some days of twenty hours 
of work daily, overcome by fatigue, he would have in 
spite of everything, four hours of solid sleep, that 
Shakspeare called “ sore labor’s bath.” 

He had not had these four hours, and the law that 
every state of prolonged excitement brings exhaustion 
that should be refreshed by a functional rest, was 
proved false in his case. After a hard day’s work he 
would go to bed at one o’clock in the morning and 
would go to sleep immediately. But very soon he 
awoke with a start, suffocating, covered with perspira- 
tion, in a state of extreme anxiety, his mind agitated by 
hallucinations of which he could not rid himself all at 
once. If he did not wake suddenly, he dreamed fright- 
ful dreams, always of Mme. Dammauville or of Caffie. 
Was it not curious that Cafiie, who until then had been 
completely effaced from his memory, was resuscitated 
by Mme. Dammauville during the night, ghost of the 
darkness that the daylight dissipated ? 


292 


Conscience. 


Believing that one of the causes of these dreams was 
the excitement of the brain, occasioned by excessive 
work at the hour when he should not exercise it, but on 
the contrary should allow it to rest, he decided to 
change his plan which produced so little success. In- 
stead of intellectual work he would engage in physical 
exercise, which, by exhausting his muscular functions, 
would procure him the sleep of the laboring class ; and 
as he could not roll a wheelbarrow nor chop wood, every 
evening after dinner he walked seven or eight miles 
rapidly. 

Physical work succeeded no better than intellectual ; 
he endured the fatigue of butchers and wood-choppers, 
but he did not obtain their sleep. Decidedly, bodily 
fatigue was worth no more than that of the brain. It 
was worth even less. At his table, plunged in his 
books, or in his laboratory over his microscope, he 
absorbed himself in his work, and, by the force of a will 
that had been long exercised and submissive to obedi- 
ence, he was able to keep his thoughts on the subject 
in hand, without distraction as without dreams. Time 
passed. But when walking in the streets of Paris, in 
the deserted roads on the outskirts, by the Seine or 
Marne, his mind wandered where it would ; it was the 
mistress, and it always lingered on Mme. Dammauville, 
Caffie, and Florentin. It seemed as if the heat of walk- 
ing started his brain. When he returned in this state, 
after many hours of this cerebral excitability, how 
could he find the tranquil and refreshing sleep, com- 
plete and profound, of poor people who work only with 
their muscles ? 

Never having been ill, he had never examined nor 


Conscience. 


293 


treated himself : medicine was good for others but use- 
less for him. With a machine organized like his he 
need fear only accidents, and until now he had been 
spared them ; a true son of peasants, he victoriously 
resisted Paris life as the destroyer of the intellect. 
But the time had come to undertake an examination 
and to try a treatment that would give him rest. He 
was not a sceptical doctor, and he believed that what 
he ordered for others was good for himself. 

'Vhe misfortune was that he could not find in himself 
any of the causes which resolve into insomnia ; he had 
neither meningitis nor encephalopathy, nor anything 
that announced a cerebral tumor ; he was not anaemic ; 
he ate well ; he did not suffer with neuralgia, nor with 
any acute or chronic affection that generally accompa- 
nied the absence of sleep ; he drank neither tea nor 
alcohol ; and without this state of over-excitement of 
the encephalic centres, he might have said that he was 
in good health, a little thin, but that was all. 

It was this excitement that he must cure, and as 
there are many remedies for insomnia, he tried those 
which, it seemed to him, were suitable to. his case ; but 
bromide of potassium, in spite of its hypnotic proper- 
ties, produced no more effect than the over-working 
of the brain and body. When he realized this he re- 
placed it with chloral ; but chloral, which should create 
a desire to sleep, after several days had no more effect 
than the bromide. Then he tried injections of mor- 
phine. 

It was not without a certain uneasiness that he made 
this third trial, the two first having met with so little 
success ; and since it is acknowledged that chloral pro- 


294 


Conscience. 


duces a calmer sleep than morphine, it seemed as if the 
latter would prove as useless as the former. However, 
he slept without being tormented by dreams or wak- 
ings, and the next day he still slept. 

But he knew too well the effects produced by a 
prolonged usage of these injections to continue them 
beyond what was strictly indispensable ; he therefore 
omitted them, and sleep left him. 

He tried them again ; then, soon, as the small doses 
lost their efficacy, he gradually increased them. At the 
end of a certain time what he feared came to pass — 
his leanness increased ; he lost his appetite, his mus- 
cular force, and his moral energy ; his pale face began 
to wear the characteristic expression of the morpho 
maniac. 

Then he stopped, frightened. 

Should he continue, he would become a morpho- 
maniac in a given time, and the apathy into which he fell 
prevented him from resisting the desire to absorb new 
doses of poison, a desire as imperious, as irresistible in 
morphinism as that of alcohol for the alcoholic, and 
more terrible in its effects — the perversion of the intel- 
lectual faculties, loss of will, of memory, of judgment, 
paralysis, or the mania that leads to suicide. 

If he did not continue, and these sleepless nights or 
the agitated sleep which maddened him should return, 
and following them, this over-excitement of the brain 
in troubling the nutrition of the encephalic mass, it 
might be the prelude of some grave cerebral affection. 

On one side the morphine habit ; on the other, 
dementia from the constant excitement and disorgan- 
ization of the brain. 


Conscience. 


295 


Between a fatally certain result and one that was 
possible he did not hesitate. He must give up mor- 
phine, and this choice forced itself upon him with so 
much more strength, because if morphine assured him 
sleep at night, it by no means gave him tranquil days. 
On the contrary. 

He began to use this remedy at night when he fell 
under the influence of certain ideas ; during the day 
when applying himself to work, by an effort of will he 
escaped from these ideas, and was the man he had 
always been, master of his strength and mind. But 
the action of the morphine rapidly weakened this all- 
powerful will, so much so, that when these ideas crossed 
his mind during his working hours he had not the 
energy to drive them away. He tried to shake them off, 
but in vain ; they would not leave his brain, to which 
they clung and encompassed it with increasing strength. 

Truly, those two corpses troubled him horribly. 
Was it not exasperating for a man who had seen and 
dissected so many, that there should be always two 
before his eyes, even when they were closed — that of 
this old rascal and of this unfortunate woman ? In 
order not to complicate this impression with another that 
humiliated him, he got rid of the packages of bank 
bills taken from Caflie, by sending them “as restitu- 
tion ” to the director of public charities. But this had 
no appreciable effect. 

The thought of Florentin pestered him also ; and if 
he saw Caffie lying in his arm-chair, Mme. Dammau- 
ville motionless and pink on her bed, to him it was not 
less cruel to see Florentin between the decks of the 
vessel that would soon carry him to New Caledonia. 


296 


Conscience. 


The ideas on conscience that he had expressed at 
Crozat’s, and those that he explained to Phillis about 
remorse, were still his ; but he w'as not the less certain 
that these two dead persons and the condemned one 
weighed upon him with a terrible weight, frightful, 
suffocating, like a nightmare. It was not in accordance 
with his education nor with his environment to have 
these corpses behind him and this victim before him. 

But where his former ideas were overthrown since 
these dead bodies seized hold of his life was in his 
confidence in his strength. 

The strong man that he believed himself, he who 
follows his ambition regardless of things and of per- 
sons, looking only before him and never behind, master 
of his mind as of his heart and of his arm, was not at 
all the one that reality revealed. 

On the contrary, he had been weak in action and 
yet weaker afterwards. 

And it was not only humiliation in the present that 
he felt in acknowledging this weakness, it was also an 
uneasiness for the future ; for, if he lacked this strength 
that he attributed to himself before having tested it, 
he should, if his beliefs were true, succumb some day. 

Evidently, if he were perfectly strong he would not 
have complicated his life with love. The strong walk 
alone because they need no one. And he needed a 
woman ; and so great was the need that it was through 
her only, near her, when he looked at her, when he 
listened to her, that he experienced a little calm. 

Was he weak and cowardly on account of this ? 
Perhaps not, but only human. 


Conscience. 


297 


II. 

Because he felt calm when with Phillis, Saniel 
wished that she might never leave him. 

But, as happy as she was in her sorrow to see that 
instead of avoiding her — which a less generous man 
would have done, perhaps — he sought to draw nearer 
each day, she could not give up her lessons and her 
work, which was her daily bread, to give all her time 
to her love, any more than she could leave her mother 
entirely alone, crushed with shame, who had never 
needed so much as now to be cheered and sustained. 

She did not let a day pass without going to see 
Saniel ; but in spite of her desire she could not remain 
with him as long as she wished and he asked. When 
she .rose to go and he retained her, she remained, but 
it was only for a few minutes ; they were short, and the 
time soon came when, after ten attempts, she was 
obliged to leave him. 

At all times these separations had been full of 
despair to her, the apprehension of which, from the 
moment of her arrival, paralyzed her ; but now they 
were still more cruel. Formerly, on leaving him, she 
often saw him deep in his work before she opened the 
door ; now, on the contrary, he conducted her to the 
vestibule, retained her, and only let her leave him 
when she tore herself from his embrace, after promis- 
ing and repeating her promise to come early the next 
day and stay longer. Formerly, also, she was calm 
when she left him, not thinking of his health, nor ask- 
ing herself how she would find him at their next meet- 
ing, strong and powerful, as sound in body as in mind. 


29 ^ 


Conscience. 


On the contrary, now she worried herself, wondering 
how she would find him on the occasion of each visit. 
Would the sadness, melancholy, and dejection still 
remain ? Would he be thinner and paler ? It was her 
care, her anguish, to try to divine the causes of the 
change in him, which manifested itself as strongly in his 
sentiments as in his person. Was it not truly extraor- 
dinary that he was more grave and uneasy now that 
his life was assured than during the hard times when 
he was so worried that he never knew what the morrow 
would bring ? He had obtained the position that his 
ambition coveted ; he had sufficient money for his 
wants ; he admitted that his experiments had succeeded 
beyond his expectations ; the essays that he published 
on his experiments were loudly discussed, praised by 
some, contested by others ; it seemed that he .had 
attained his object ; and he was sad, discontented, 
unhappy, more tormented than when he exhausted 
himself with efforts, without other support than his 
will. At last when, frightened to see him thus, she 
questioned him as to how he felt, he became angry, and 
answered brutally : 

“ 111 ? Why do you think that I am ill ? Am I not 
better able than any one to know how I am ? I am 
overworked, that is all ; and as my life of privation 
does not permit me to repair my forces, I have become 
anemic ; it is not serious. It is strange, truly, that you 
ask for explanations of what is natural. Count the teeth 
of the polytechnicians and look at their hair after their 
examinations, and tell me what you think of them. 
Why do you think anything else is the matter with me ? 
One cannot expend one’s self with impunity ; that would 


Conscience. 


299 


be too good. Everything must be paid for in this 
world.” 

She was obliged to believe that he was right and 
understood his condition ; however, she could not help 
worrying. She knew nothing of medicine ; she did not 
know the meaning of the medical terms he used, but 
she found that this was not sufficient to explain all — 
neither his roughness of temper and excess of anger 
without reason, any more than his sudden tenderness, 
his weakness and dejection, his preoccupation and 
absence of mind. 

She discovered the effect she produced on him, and 
how, merely by her presence, she cheered this gloomy 
fancy and raised this depression by not asking him 
stupid questions on certain subjects which she had not 
yet determined on, but which she hoped to avoid. 
Also, she did not wish to leave him, and ingeniously 
invented excuses to go to see him twice a day ; in the 
morning on going to her lessons, and in the afternoon 
or evening. 

Late one evening she rang his bell with a hand made 
nervous with joy. 

“ I have come to stay till to-morrow,” she said, in 
triumphant tones. 

She expected that he would express his joy by an 
embrace, but he did nothing. 

“ Are you going out ? ” 

“ Not at all ; I am not thinking of myself, but of your 
mother.” 

“ Do you think that I would have left her alone in 
her weak and nervous state ? A cousin of ours arrived 
from the country, who will occupy my bed, and I prof- 


300 


Conscience. 


ited by it quick enough, saying that I would remain at 
the school. And here I am.” 

In spite of his desire for it, he had never dared ask 
her to pass the night with him. During the day he 
would only betray himself by his sad or fantastic tem- 
per ; but at night, with such dreams as came to him, 
might not some word escape that would betray him ? 

However, since she was come it was impossible to 
send her away ; he could not do it for her nor for him- 
self. What pretext could he find to say, “ Go ! I do 
not want you ” ? He wanted her above all ; he wanted to 
look at her, to listen to her, to hear her voice that soothed 
and lulled his anguish, to feel her near him — only to 
haVe her there, and not be face to face with his thoughts. 

She examined him secretly, asking herself the cause 
of this singular reception, standing at the entrance of the 
office, not daring to remove her hat. How could her arriv- 
al produce an effect so different from what she expected ? 

“ You do not take off your hat ? ” he said. 

“I was asking myself if you had to work.” 

“ Why do you ask yourself that ? ” 

“For fear of disturbing you.” 

“ What a madness you have for always asking some- 
thing ! ” he exclaimed violently. “ What do you expect 
me to say ? What astonishes you ? Why should you dis- 
turb me ? In what ? Voyons, speak, explain yourself ! ” 

The time was far distant when these explosions sur- 
prised her, though they always pained her. 

“ I speak stupidly,” she said. “ What will you ? I 
am stupid ; forgive me.” 

These words, “forgive me,” were more cruel than 
numberless reproaches, for he well knew that he had 
nothing to forgive in her, since she was the victim and 
he the criminal. Would he never be able to master 
these explosions, as imprudent as they were unjust ? 


Conscience. 


301 


He took her in his arms and made her sit by him. 

“ It is for you to forgive,” he said. 

And he was as tender and caressing as he had been 
brutal. He was a fool to imagine that she could have 
suspicions, and the surest way to give birth to them 
was to show fear that she had them. To betray himself 
by such awkwardness was as serious as to let a cry 
escape him while sleeping. 

But for this night he had a way which was in reality 
not difficult, that would not expose him to the danger 
of talking in his sleep — he would not sleep. After having 
passed so many nights without closing his eyes, without 
doubt he could keep them open this entire night. 

But he deceived himself ; when he heard the calm 
and regular respiration of Phillis with her head on his 
shoulder, and felt the mild warmth of her body pene- 
trate his, in the quiet imposed upon him, without being 
conscious of it, believing himself far from sleep, and 
convinced that he required no effort to keep awake, he 
suddenly slept. 

When he awoke a ray of pale sunlight filled the room, 
and leaning her elbow on the bolster, Phillis was watch- 
ing him. 

He made a brusque movement, throwing himself 
backward. 

“ What is the matter?” he cried. What have I said ? ” 

Instantly his face paled, his lips quivered ; he felt 
his heart beat tumultuously and his throat pressed by 
painful constriction. 

“ But nothing is the matter,” she answered, looking 
at him tenderly. “ You have said nothing.” 

To come to the point, why should he have spoken ? 
During his frightful dreams, his nights of disturbed 
sleep, he might have cried out, but he did not know 
if he had ever done so. And besides, he had not just 


302 


Cotiscience. 


waked from an agitated sleep. All this passed through 
his mind in an instant, in spite of his alarm. 

“ What time is it ? ” he asked. 

“ Nearly six o’clock." 

‘‘ Six o’clock ! ’’ 

“ Do you not hear the vehicles in the street ? The 
street-venders are calling their wares.’’ 

It must have been about one o’clock when he closed his 
eyes ; he had then slept five hours, profoundly, and he 
felt calm, rested, refreshed, his body active and his mind 
tranquil, the man of former times, in the days of his 
happy youth, and not the man of these last frightful days. 

He breathed a sigh. 

“Ah, if I could have you always ! ’’ he murmured, as 
much to himself as to her. 

And he gave her a long look mingled with a sad 
smile ; then, placing his arm around her shoulders he 
pressed her to him. 

“ Dear little wife ! ’’ 

She had never heard so profound, so vibrating, a ten- 
derness in his voice ; never had she been able, until 
hearing these words, to measure the depth of the love 
that she had inspired in him ; and it even seemed that 
this was the declaration of a new love. 

Pressing her passionately to him, he repeated : 

“ Dear little wife ! ’’ 

Distracted, lost in her happiness, she did not reply. 

All at once he held her from him gently, and looking 
at her with the same smile : 

“ Does this word tell you nothing ? ’’ 

“ It tells me that you love me.’’ 

“And is that all ? ’’ 

“What more can I wish ? You say it, I feel it. You 
give me the greatest joy of which I can dream.’’ 

“ It is enough for you ? ’’ 


Conscience. 


303 


“ It would be enough if it need never be interrupted. 
But it is the misfortune of our life that we are obliged 
to separate at the time when the ties that unite us are 
the most strongly bound.” 

“ Why should we separate ? ” 

“ Alas ! Mamma ? And daily bread ? ” 

“ If you did not leave your mother. If you need no 
longer worry about your life ? ” 

She looked at him, not daring to question him, not be- 
traying the direction of her thoughts except by a trem- 
bling that she could not control in spite of her efforts. 

“ I mean, if you become my wife.” 

Oh, my beloved ! ” 

“ Will you not ? ” 

She threw herself in his arms, fainting ; but after a 
moment she recovered. 

“Alas ! It is impossible,” she murmured. 

“ Why impossible ? ” 

“ Do not ask me ; do not oblige me to say it.” 

“ But, on the contrary, I wish you to tell me.” 

She turned her head away, and in a voice that was 
scarcely perceptible, in a stifled sigh : 

“ My brother ” 

“ It is greatly on account of your brother that I wish 
this marriage.” 

Then, suddenly : “ Do you think me the man to 

submit to prejudiced blockheads ? ” 

III. 

Saniel had not waited until this day to acknowledge 
the salutary influence that Phillis’s presence exercised 
over him, yet the idea of making her his wife never 
occurred to him. He thought himself ill-adapted to 
marriage, and but little desirous of being a husband, 
Until lately he h?id had no desire for 9, home, 


304 


Conscience. 


This idea came to him suddenly and took strong 
hold of him; at least as much on account of the 
calmness he felt in her presence, as by the charm of 
her manner, her health, happiness, and gayety. 

It was not only physical calm that she gave him by a 
mysterious affinity concerning which his studies told 
him nothing, but of which he did not the less feel all 
the force ; it was also a moral calm. 

There were duties he owed her, and terribly heavy 
were those he owed her mother and Florentin. 

He did all he could for Florentin, but this was not all 
that he owed them. Florentin was in prison ; Mme. 
Cormier fell into a mournful despair, growing weaker 
each day ; and Phillis, in spite of her elasticity and 
courage, bent beneath the weight of injustice. 

How much the situation would be changed if he 
married her — for them, and for him ! 

When Phillis was a little recovered from her great 
surprise, she asked him : 

When had he decided on this marriage ? ” 

He did not wish to prevaricate, and he answered that 
it was at that instant that the idea came to him, exact 
enough and strong enough to give form to the ideas 
that had been floating in his brain for several months. 

“At least, have you considered it? Have you not 
yielded to an impulse of love ? ” 

“ Would it be better to yield to a long, rational cal- 
culation ? I marry you because I love you, and also 
because I am certain that without you I cannot be 
happy. Frankly, I acknowledge that I need you, your 
tenderness, your love, your strength of character, your 
equal temper, your invincible faith in hope, which, for 
me as I am organized, is worth the largest dot'' 

“ It is exactly because I have no dot to bring you. 
When you were at the last extremity^ desperate and 


Conscience. 


305 


crushed, I might ask to become the wife of the jDoor 
village doctor that you were going to be ; but to-day, 
in your position, above all in the position that you will 
soon occupy, is poor little Phillis worthy of you ? You 
give me the greatest joy that I can ever know, of which 
I have only dreamed in telling myself that it would be 
folly to hope to have it realized. But just that gives 
me the strength to beg you to reflect, and to consider 
whether you will ever regret this moment of rapture 
that makes me so happy.” 

“ I have reflected, and what you say proves better 
than anything that I do not deceive myself. I want a 
wife who loves me, and you are that wife.” 

“ More than I can tell you at this moment, wild with 
happiness, but not more than I shall prove to you in 
the continuance of our love.” 

“ Besides, dearest, do not have any illusions on the 
splendors of this position of which you speak ; it is 
more than probable that they will never be realized, 
for I am not a man of money, and will do nothing to 
gain any. If it does not come by itself ” 

“ It will come.” 

“ That is not the object for which I work. What I 
wish I have obtained partly ; if now I make money and 
obtain a rich practice, the jealousy of my confreres will 
make me lose, or wait too long, for what my ambition 
prefers to a fortune. For the moment this position 
will be modest ; my four thousand francs of salary, 
that which I gain at the central bureau while waiting 
to have the title of hospital physician, and five hun- 
dred francs a month more that my editor offers me for 
work and a review of bacteriology, will give us nearly 
twelve thousand francs, and we must content ourselves 
with that for some time.” 

“ That is a fortune to me.” 


20 


3o6 


Consciefice. 


“ To me also ; but I thought I ought to tell you.” 

“ And when do you wish our marriage to take place ? ” 

“ Immediately after the necessary legal delay, and as 
soon as I am settled in a new apartment ; for you could 
not come here as my wife, where you have been seen so 
often. It would not be pleasant for you nor for me.” 

“ O dearest ! ” 

“ And we will not be so foolish as to put ourselves in 
the hands of an upholsterer ; the first one cost enough.” 

He said these last words with fierce energy, but con- 
tinued immediately : 

“ What do we need ? A parlor for the patients, if they 
come ; an office for me, which will do also as a labora- 
tory ; a bed-room for us, and one for your mother.” 

“ You wish •” 

“ But certainly ! Do you think that I would ask you 
to separate from her ? ” 

She took his hand, and kissing it with a passionate im- 
pulse : “ Oh, the dearest, the most generous of men ! ” 

“ Do not let us talk of that,” he said with evident 
annoyance. “ In your mother’s condition of mental 
prostration it would kill her to be left alone ; she 
needs you, and I promise to help you to soften her 
grief. We will make her comfortable ; and although 
my nature is not very tender, I will try to replace him 
from whom she is separated. It will be a happiness to 
her to see you happy.” 

For a long time he enlarged upon what he wished, 
feeling a sentiment of satisfaction in talking of what he 
would do for Mme. Cormier, in whom at this moment 
he saw the mother of Florentin more than that of Phillis. 

“ Do you think we can make her forget?” he asked 
from time to time. 

“Forget ? No. Neither she nor I can ever forget ; 
but it is certain our sorrow will be drowned in our hap- 


Conscience. 


307 


piness, and this happiness we shall owe to you. Oh ! 
how you will be adored, respected, blessed ! ” 

Adored, respected ! He repeated these words to 
himself. One could, then, be happy by making others 
happy. He had had so little opportunity until this 
time to do for others, that this was in some sort the 
revelation of a sentiment that he was astonished to feel, 
but which, for being new, was only the sweeter to him. 

He wished to give himself the satisfaction of tasting 
all the sweetness. 

“ Where are you going this morning ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ I return to the school to help my pupils prepare 
their compositions for the prize.” 

“ Very well ; while you are at the school this morning, 
I will go to see your mother. The process of asking in 
marriage that we make use of, is perhaps original, and 
conforms to the laws of nature, if nature admits mar- 
riage, which I ignore ; — but it certainly is not the way 
of those of the world. And now I must address this 
request to your mother.” 

“ What joy you will give her ! ” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ I would like to be there to enjoy her happiness. 
Mamma has a mania for marriage ; she spends her time 
marrying the people she knows or those she does not 
know. And she has felt convinced that I would die in 
the yellow skin of an old maid. At last, this evening 
she will have the happiness of announcing to me your 
visit and your request. But do not make this visit until 
the afternoon, because then our cousin will be gone.” 

Saniel spent his morning in looking for apartments, and 
found one in a quarter of the Invalides, which he engaged. 

It was nearly one o’clock when he arrived at Mme. 
Cormier’s. As usual, when he called, she looked at him 
with anxious curiosity, thinking of Florentin. 


3o8 


Conscience. 


It is not of him that I wish to speak to you to-day,” 
he said, without pronouncing any name, which was 
unnecessary. “ It is of Mile. Phillis ” 

“ Do you find her ill ? ” Mme. Cormier exclaimed, 
who thought only of misfortune. 

“ Not at all. It is of her and of myself that I wish 
to speak. Do not be uneasy. I hope that what I am 
going to say will not be a cause of sadness to you.” 

“ Pardon me if I always see something to fear. We 
have been so frightfully tried, so unjustly ! ” 

He interrupted her, for these complaints did not 
please him. 

“ For a long time,” he said quickly, “ Mile. Phillis has 
inspired me with a profound sentiment of esteem and 
tenderness ; I have not been able to see her so coura- 
geous, so brave in adversity, so decided in her character, 
so good to you, so charming, without loving her, and I 
have come to ask you to give her to me as my wife.” 

At SaniePs first words, Mme. Cormier’s hands began 
to tremble, and the trembling increased. 

“ Is it possible ? ” she murmured, beginning to cry. 
“ So great a happiness for my daughter ! Such an 
honor for us, for us, for us ! ” 

I love her.” 

“ Forgive me if happiness makes me forget the con- 
ventionalities, but I lose my head. We are so unhappy, 
that our souls are weak against joy. Perhaps I should 
hide my daughter’s sentiments ; but I cannot help tell- 
ing you that this esteem, this tenderness of which you 
speak, is felt by her. I discovered it long ago, although 
she did not tell me. Your request, then, can only be 
received with joy by mother, as well as daughter.” 

This was said brokenly, evidently from an overflow- 
ing heart. But all at once her face saddened. 

“ I must talk to you sincerely,” she said. “You are 


Conscience. 


309 


young, I am not ; and my age makes it a duty for me 
not to yield to an impulse. We are unfortunates, you 
are one of the happy ; you will soon be rich and famous. 
Is it wise to burden your life with a wife who is in my 
daughter’s position ? ” 

With the exception of a few words, this was Phillis’s 
answer. He answered the mother as he had answered 
the daughter. 

“ It is not for you that I speak,” continued Mme. Cor- 
mier. “ I should not permit myself to give you advice ; 
it is in placing myself at the point of view of my daugh- 
ter, that I, her mother, with the experience of my age 
should watch over her future. Is it certain that in the 
struggles of life you will never suffer from this mar- 
riage, not because my daughter will not make you happy 
— from this side I am easy — but because the situation 
that fate has made for us will weigh on you and fetter 
you ? I know my daughter — her delicacy ; her uneasy 
susceptibility, that of the unfortunate ; her pride, that 
of the irreproachable. It would be a wound for her 
that would make happiness give way to unhappiness, for 
she could not bear contempt.” 

“ If that is in human nature, it is not in mine ; I give 
you my word.” 

He explained how he meant to arrange their life, and 
when she understood that she was to live with them, 
she clasped her hands and exclaimed : 

“ Oh, my God, who hast taken my son, how good 
thou art to give me another ! ” 

IV. 

He asked nothing better than to be a son to this 
poor woman ; in reality he was worth much more than 
this unfortunate boy, effeminate and incapable. What 


310 


Conscie7ice. 


did this maternal hunger require ? A son to love. She 
would find one in her son-in-law. In seeing her daugh- 
ter happy, how could she help being happy herself ? 

Evidently they would be happy, the mother and 
daughter ; and whatever Phillis might think, still under 
the influence of the shameful blow, they would forget. 
They would owe him this. 

It was a long time since he had worked with so much 
serenity as on this day ; and when in the evening he 
went to bed, uneasy as usual about the night, he slept 
as calmly as if Phillis were resting her charming head 
on his shoulder and he breathed the perfume of it. 

Decidedly, to make others happy was the best thing 
in the world, and as long as one could have this satis- 
faction there was no fear of being unhappy. To create 
an atmosphere of happiness for others is to profit by it 
at the same time. 

He waited for Phillis impatiently, for she would bring 
him an echo of her mother’s joy, and it was a recompense 
that she owed him. 

She arrived happy, smiling, penetrated with tender- 
ness ; but he observed that she was keeping something 
from him, something that embarrassed her, and yet she 
would not tell him what it was. 

He was not disposed to admit that she could conceal 
anything from him, and he questioned her. 

“ What are you keeping from me ? ” 

“ How can you suppose that I should keep anything 
from you ? ” 

“ Well, what is the matter? You know, do you not, 
that I read all your thoughts in your eyes ? Very well, 
your eyes speak when your lips are silent.” 

“ I have a request to make of you, a prayer.” 

“ Why do you not tell me ? ” 

“ Because I do not dare.” 


Conscience. 


311 


“Yet it does not seem to me that I show a disposition 
to make you believe that I could refuse you anything.” 

“ It is just that which is the cause of my embarrass- 
ment and reserve ; I fear to pain you at the moment 
when I would show you all the gratitude and love in 
my heart.” 

“ If you are going to give me pain, it is better not to 
make me wait.” 

She hesitated ; then, before an impatient gesture, she 
decided to speak. 

“ I wish to ask you how you mean to be married ? ” 

He looked at her in surprise. 

“ But, like every one else ! ” 

“ Every one ? ” she asked, persistently. 

“ Is there any other way of being married ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I do not in the least understand this manner of ask- 
ing conundrums ; if you are alluding to a fashionable 
custom of which I know nothing, say so frankly. That 
will not wound me, since I am the first to declare that 
I know nothing of it. What do you wish ? ” 

She felt his irritation increase, and yet she could not 
decide to say what she wished. 

“I have begun badly,” she said. “I should have 
told you at first that you will always find in me a wife 
who will respect your ideas and beliefs, who will never 
permit herself to judge you, and still less to seek to 
contend with them or to modify them. That you feel, 
do you not, is neither a part of my nature nor of my 
love ? ” 

“Conclude,” he said impatiently. 

“I think, then,” she said with timid hesitation, “that 
you will not say that I fail in respect to your ideas on 
asking that our marriage take place in church.” 

“ But that was my intention.” 


312 


Conscience. 


“ Truly ! ” she exclaimed. “ O dearest ! And I 
feared to offend you ! ” 

‘‘ Why should you think it would offend me ? ” he 
asked, smiling. 

“ You consent to go to confession ? ” 

Instantly the smile in his eyes and on his lips was 
replaced by a gleam of fury. 

“ And why should I not go o confession ? ” he 
demanded. 

“ But ” 

“ Do you suppose that I can be afraid to confess ? 
Why do you suppose that ? Tell me, why ? ” 

He looked at her with eyes that pierced to her heart, 
as if they would read her inmost thoughts. 

Stupefied by this access of fury, which burst forth 
without any warning, since he had smilingly replied to 
her request for a religious marriage, she could find 
nothing to say, not understanding how the simple word 
“ confess ” could so exasperate him. And yet she 
could not deceive herself ; it was indeed this word and 
no other that put him in this state. 

He continued to look at her, and wishing to explain 
herself, she said : “ I supposed only one thing, and 
that is that I might offend you by asking you to do 
what is contrary to your beliefs.” 

The mad anger that carried him away so stupidly 
began to lose its first violence ; another word added to 
what had already escaped him would be an avowal. 

“ Do not let us talk of it any more,” he said. 
“Above all, do not let us think of it.” 

“ Permit me to say one word,” she replied. “ Had I 
been situated like other people I would have asked 
nothing ; my will is yours. But for you, for your 
future and your honor, you should not appear to marry 
in secret, as if ashamed, with a pariah.” 


Conscience. 


313 


“ Be easy. I feel as you do, more than you, the 
necessity of consecrated ceremonies for us.” 

She understood that on this path he would go farther 
than she. 

To destroy the impression of this unfortunate word, 
he proposed that they should visit the apartment he 
had engaged the previous day. 

For the first time they walked together boldly, with 
heads held high, side by side in the streets of Paris, 
without fear of meeting others. How proud she was ! 
Her husband ! It was on her husband’s arm that she 
leaned ! When they crossed the Tuileries she was al- 
most surprised that people did not turn to see them pass. 

In her present state of mind she could not but find the 
house he chose admirable ; the street was admirable, the 
house was admirable, the apartment was admirable. 

As it contained three bedrooms opening on a terrace, 
where he would keep the animals for his experiments, 
Saniel wished to have her decide which one she would 
choose ; as she would share it with him she wished to take 
the best, but he would not accept this arrangement. 

I want you to choose between the two little ones,” 
he said. “ The largest and best must be reserved for 
your mother, who, not being able to go out, needs 
more space, air, and light than we do.” 

She was transported with his kindness, delicacy, and 
generosity. Never would she be able to love him 
enough to raise herself up to him. 

Fortunately the principal rooms, the parlor and the 
office, were about the same size as those in the Rue 
Louis-le-Grand, so there need be but little change in 
furnishing ; and they would bring their furniture from 
the Rue des Moines. 

This feminine talk, interrupted by passionate excla- 
mations and glances, charmed Saniel, who had forgotten 


3^4 


Conscience. 


the incident of the confession and his anger, thinking 
only of Phillis, seeing only her, ravished by her gayety, 
her vivacity, his whole being stirred by the tender 
caresses of her beautiful dark eyes. 

How could he not be happy with this delicious 
woman who held such sway over him, and who loved 
him so ardently ? For him a single danger henceforth 
— solitude. She would preserve him from it. With her 
gayety, good temper, courage, and love, she would not 
leave him to his thoughts ; work would do the rest. 

After the question of furniture was decided, they 
settled that of the marriage ceremony, and she was sur- 
prised to find that his ideas were the same as hers. 

She decided upon her toilet, a silk gown as simple 
as possible, and she would make it herself, as she made 
all her gowns. And then they discussed the witnesses. 

“ We have no friends,” Phillis said. 

“ You had some formerly ; your father had friends 
and comrades.” 

“ I am no longer the daughter of my father, I am 
the sister of my brother ; I would not dare to ask them 
to witness my marriage.” 

“ It is just because you are the sister of your brother 
that they cannot refuse you ; it would be cruelty added 
to rudeness. Cruelty may be overlooked, but rude- 
ness ! Among the men of talent, who was your father’s 
best friend ? ” 

“Cintrat.” 

Is he not a bohemian, a drunkard ?” 

“ My father regarded him as the greatest painter of 
our time, the most original.” 

“It is not a question of talent, but of name ; I am 
sure that he is not even decorated. Your father had 
other friends, more successful, more commonplace, if 
you wish.” 


Conscience. 


315 


“ Glorient.” 

‘‘ The member of the Institute ?” 

“ Casparis, the sculptor.” 

“ An academician, also ; that is what we want, and 
both are ar chi-decor You will write them, and tell 
them who I am, assistant professor of the school of 
medicine, and doctor of the hospitals. I promise you 
they will accept. I will ask my old master Carbonneau, 
president of the academy of medicine ; and Claudet, 
the ancient minister, who, in his quality of deputy of 
my department, could not decline any more than the 
others. And that will give us decorated witnesses, 
which will look well in the newspapers.” 

It was not only in the newspapers they looked well, 
but also in the church of Sainte-Marie des Batignolles. 

“ Glorient ! Casparis ! Carbonneau ! Claudet ! Art, 
science, and politics.” 

But the beauty and charm of the bride were not 
eclipsed by these glorious witnesses. She entered on 
Glorient’s arm, proud in her modesty, radiant with grace. 

While the priest celebrated mass at the altar, outside, 
before the door, a man dressed in a costume of chest- 
nut velvet, and wearing a felt hat, walked up and 
down, smoking a pipe. It was the Count de Brigard, 
whose principles forbade him to enter a church for 
either a wedding or a funeral, and who walked up and 
down on the sidewalk with his disciples, waiting to 
congratulate Saniel. When he appeared the count 
rushed up to him, and taking his hand pressed it 
warmly on separating him from his wife, and saying : 

“ It is good, it is noble. Circumstances made this 
marriage ; without them it would not have taken place, 
f understand and I excuse it ; I do more, I applaud 
it. My dear friend, you are a man.” 

And as it was Wednesday, in the evening at Crozat’s, 


Conscience. 


316 


he publicly expressed his approbation, which, in the 
conditions in which it had been offered, did not satisfy 
his conscience. 

Gentlemen, we have assisted to-day at a grand act 
of reparation, the marriage of our friend Saniel to the 
sister of this poor boy, victim of an injustice that cries 
for vengeance. One evening in this same room, I spoke 
lightly of Saniel, some of you remember, perhaps, in 
spite of the time that has passed. I wish to make this 
public reparation to him. To-day he has shown him- 
self a man of duty and of conscience, bravely putting 
himself above social weaknesses.” 

“Is it not a social weakness,” asked Glady, “ to have 
chosen as witnesses of this act of reparation persons who 
seem to have been selected for the decorative side of 
their official positions ? ” 

“ Profound irony, on the contrary ! ” said Brigard. 
“ It is a powerful and fruitful lesson, which makes even 
those who are professional defenders concur in the 
demolition of the prejudiced. Saniel is a man ! ” 

V. 

The Sunday following her marriage, Phillis experi- 
enced a surprise on which she reflected a long time 
without finding a satisfactory explanation. 

As she was dressing, Saniel entered her room. 

“What are you going to do to-day ? ” he asked. 

“ That which I do every day.” 

“ You are not going to mass ? ” 

She looked at him astonished, not being able to con- 
trol her surprise, and as usual, when she appeared to 
wish to read his thoughts, he showed temper. 

“ In what way is my question extraordinary ? ” 

“ Mass is not exactly the usual subject of your 
thoughts, it seems to me,” 


Conscience, 


317 


“ It may become so, especially when I think of others, 
as is the case just now. Do you not often go to mass ? ” 

“When I can.” 

“Very well, you can go to-day if you wish. Listen to 
what I have to say to you. I have not forgotten the 
promise you made me to respect my ideas and beliefs. 
I wish to make you the same ; it is very simple.” 

“ All that is good and generous seems simple to you.” 
“ Well ? ” 

“ I will go at once.” 

“ Now ? At once ? It is not eight o’clock. Go to 
high mass, it is more fashionable.” 

Fashionable ! What a strange word in his mouth ! 
It was not out of respect to fashion that she went to 
church, but because there was in her a depth of reli- 
gious sentiment and of piety, a little vague perhaps, 
which Florentin’s misfortunes had revived. 

“ I will go to high mass,” she said, without letting it 
appear that this word had suggested anything to her, 
and continuing her dressing. 

“Are you going to wear this dress?” he asked, 
pointing to one that lay on a chair. 

“Yes ; at least if it does not displease you.” 

“ I find it rather simple.” 

In effect it was of extreme simplicity, made of some 
cheap stuff, its only charm being an originality that 
Phillis gave it on making it herself. 

“ Do not forget,” he continued, “that Saint-Fran^ois- 
Xavier is not a church for working people ; when a 
woman is as charming as you are she is always noticed. 
People will ask who you are.” 

“ You are right ; I will wear the gown I wore at the 
distribution of prizes.” 

“ That is it ; and your bonnet, will you not, instead of 
the round hat ? The first impression should be the best.” 


Conscience. 


318 


This mixture of religious and worldly things was 
surprising in him. Had she not understood him, then, 
until now ? After all, perhaps it was only an exception. 

But these exactions regarding her dress were repeated. 

Although before her marriage Phillis had only crossed 
Saniel’s path, she knew him well enough to know that 
he was entirely given up to work, without thought of 
anything else, and she believed that after marriage he 
would continue to work in the same way, not caring for 
amusements or society. She was correct about his 
work, but not so regarding society. A short time after 
their marriage the minister Claudet was cured oppor- 
tunely of an attack of facial neuralgia by Saniel, for 
whom he conceived a great friendship. He invited 
Saniel and his wife to all his reunions and fHes^ and 
Saniel accepted all his invitations. 

At first her wedding gown answered very well, but it 
would not do always. It had to be trimmed, modified, 
three or four toilets made of one gown ; but, however 
ingenious Phillis might be in arranging several yards of 
tulle or gauze, she could not make combinations indefi- 
nitely. 

And besides, they did not please Saniel ; they were too 
simple. He liked lace, beads, flowers, something shining 
and glittering, such as he saw other women wear. 

How could she please him with the small resources 
at her disposal ? In her household expenses she was as 
economical as possible ; Joseph was dismissed, and 
replaced by a maid who did all the work ; the table was 
extremely simple. But these little economies, saved 
on one side, were quickly spent on the other in toilets 
and carriages. 

When she expressed a wish to work, to paint mentis^ 
he would not consent, and when she insisted he became 
angry. 


Conscience. 


319 


He only permitted her to paint pictures. As she had 
formerly painted for amusement in her father’s studio, 
she might do so now. If trade were a disgrace, art 
might be honorable. If she had talent he would be glad 
of it ; and if she should sell her pictures it would be 
original enough to cause her to be talked about. 

The salon was partly transformed into a studio, and 
Phillis painted several little pictures, which, without 
having any pretensions to great art, were pleasing and 
painted with a certain dash. Glorient admired them, 
and made a picture-dealer buy two of them and order 
others, at a small price it is true, but it was much more 
than she expected. 

With the courage and constancy that women put into 
work that pleases them, she would willingly have painted 
from morning till night ; but the connections that San- 
iel had made did not leave her this liberty. Through 
Claudet they made many acquaintances and accepted 
invitations that placed her under social obligations, so 
that almost every day she had a visit to pay, a funeral 
or a marriage to attend, besides an occasional charity 
fair, and her own day at home, when she listened for 
three hours to feminine gossip of no interest to her. 

As for him, what pleasure could he take in dressing 
after a hard day’s work to go to a reception ? He, son of 
a peasant, and a peasant himself in so many ways, who 
formerly understood nothing of fashionable life and felt 
only contempt for it, finding it as dull as it was ridiculous. 

She tried to find a cause for this change, and when 
lightly, in a round-about way, she brought him to 
explain himself, she could draw only one answer from 
him, which was no answer to her : 

“ We must be of the world.” 

Why did he care so much about society ? Was it 
because she was the sister of a criminal that he wished 


320 


Conscience. 


to take her everywhere and make people receive her ? 
She understood this up to a certain point, although the 
part he made her play was the most cruel that he could 
give her, and entirely contrary to what she would have 
chosen if she had been free. 

But this was all there was in his desire to be of the world. 
Because he had married her he was not the brother of a 
criminal, and on close observation it might be seen that 
all he desired of these persons in high places whom 
he sought was their consideration, a part of their 
importance and honor. But he did not need this ; he 
was some one by himself. The position that he had 
made was worthy of his merit. His name was honored. 
His future was envied. 

And yet, as if he did not realize this, he sought small 
satisfactions, unworthy of a serious ambition. One even- 
ing she was very much surprised when he told her that 
the decoration of a Spanish republic was offered to him, 
and although she had formed a habit of watching over 
her words she could not help exclaiming : 

“ What will you do with that ? ” 

“I could not refuse it.” 

Not only had he not refused it, but he had accepted 
others, blue, green, yellow, and tricolored ; he wore 
them in his buttonhole, around his neck, and on his 
breast. What good could these decorations do that 
belittled him ? And how could a man of his merit 
hasten to obtain the Legion of Honor before it fell to 
him naturally ? 

All this was astonishing, mysterious, and silly, and her 
mind dwelt upon it when she was alone before her easel ; 
while near her in his laboratory, he continued his ex- 
periments, or wrote an article in his office for \\\^ Review. 

But it was not without a struggle that she permitted 
herself to judge him in this way. One does not judge 


Conscience. 


321 


those whom one loves, and she loved him. Was it not 
failing in respect to her love that she did not admire 
him in every way ? When these ideas oppressed her 
she left her easel and went to him. Close to him they 
disappeared. At first, in order not to disturb him, she 
entered on tip-toe; walking softly and leaning over his 
shoulder, embraced him before he saw or heard her ; 
but he betrayed such horror, such fear, that she gave 
up this way of greeting him. 

She continued to go to his room, but in a different 
way. Instead of surprising him she announced her 
presence by rattling the handle of the door, and walk- 
ing noisily, and instead of receiving her with uneasy 
manner he welcomed her joyfully. 

You have finished painting ? ” 

“ I have come to see you for a little while.’' 

“Very well, stay with me, do not go away immedi- 
ately ; I am never so happy, I never work so well, as 
when I have you near me.” 

She felt that this was true. When she was with him, 
whether she spoke or not, her presence made him happy. 

And still she must appear not to look at him too 
attentively, as if with the manifest intention of studying 
him ; for she did this during the first days of their mar- 
riage, and angered him so much that he exclaimed : 

“ Why do you examine me thus ? What do you look 
for in me ? ” 

She learned to watch herself carefully, and when 
with him to preserve a discreet attitude that should not 
offend him. No curious looks, and no questions. But 
this was not always easy, so she asked leave to assist 
him in his work, and sometimes drew in larger size the 
designs that he made for his microscopical studies. In 
this way the time passed rapidly. If he were but will- 
ing to pass the evening hours in this sweet intimacy, 
21 


322 


Conscience. 


without a word about going out, how happy she would 
be ! But he never forgot the hour. 

Allans," he said, interrupting himself, “ we must go.” 

She had never dared to ask the true reason for this 
“ must.” 

VI. 

If she dared not frankly ask him this question : 
Why must we go out ? any more than the others : 
Why is it proper that I should go to mass to be seen ? 
Why should I wear gowns that ruin us ? Why do you 
accept decorations that are valueless in your eyes ? 
Why do you seek the society of men who have no merit 
but what they derive from their official position or from 
their fortune ? Why do we take upon ourselves social 
duties that w^eary both of us, instead of remaining 
together in a tender and intelligent intimacy that is 
sweet to us both ? she could not ask herself. 

They all appertained to this order of ideas, that she, 
without doubt, found explained them : disposition of 
character ; the exactions of an ambition in haste to 
realize its desires ; susceptibility or overshadowing 
pride ; but there were others founded on observation or 
memory, having no connection with those, or so it 
seemed to her. 

She began to know her husband the day following 
their marriage, having believed that he was always such 
as he revealed himself to her ; but this was not the 
case, and the man she had loved was so unlike the man 
whose wife she had become, that it might almost be 
thought there were two. 

To tell the truth, it was not marriage that made the 
change in his temper that distressed her ; but it was not 
less characteristic by that, that it dated back to a period 
anterior to this marriage. 


Conscience. 


323 


She remembered the commencement with a clearness 
that left no place for doubt or hesitation ; it was at the 
time when pursued by creditors he entered into rela- 
tions with Caffie. For the first time he, always so 
strong that she believed him above weakness, had had 
a moment of discouragement on announcing that he 
would probably be obliged to leave Paris ; but this 
depression had neither the anger nor weakness that he 
had since showed. It was the natural sadness of a man 
who saw his future destroyed, nothing more. The only 
surprise that she then felt was caused by the idea of 
strangling Caffie and taking enough money from his 
safe to clear himself from debt, and also because he 
said — as a consequence of this act — speaking of the 
remorse of an intelligent man, that his conscience 
would not reproach him, since for him conscience did 
not exist. But this was evidently a simple philosoph- 
ical theory, not a trait of character ; a jest or an argu- 
ment for the sake of discussion. 

Relieved from his creditors with the money won at 
Monaco, he returned to his usual calm, working harder 
than ever, passing his concours.^ and when it seemed 
excusable that he might be nervous, violent, unjust, 
he remained the man that he had been ever since she 
knew him. Then, all at once, a short time before 
Florentin went to the assizes, occurred these strange 
explosions of temper, spasms of anger, and restlessness 
that she could not explain, manifesting themselves 
exactly at the time when, by Mme. Dammauville’s 
intervention, she hoped Florentin would be saved. 
She had not forgotten the furious anger that was inex- 
plicable and unjustifiable, with which he refused her 
request to see Mme. Dammauville. He had pushed 
her from him, wishing to break with her, and until she 
was a witness of this scene she never imagined that 


324 


Conscience. 


any one could put such violence into exasperation. 
Then to this scene succeeded another, totally opposed, 
which had not less impressed her, when, at their little 
dinner by the fire, he showed such profound desolation 
on telling her to keep the memory of this evening when 
she should judge him, and announcing to her in a pro- 
phetic sort of way that the hour would come when she 
would know him whom she loved. 

And now this hour, the thought of which she had 
thrown far from her, had sounded ; she sought to com- 
bine the elements of this judgment which then ap- 
peared criminal to her, and now forced itself upon her, 
whatever she might do to repel it. 

How many times this memory returned to her ! It 
could almost be said that it had never left her, sweet 
and sad at the same time, less sweet and more sad, 
according as new subjects for uneasiness were added 
to the others, in deepening the mysterious and troub- 
lous impression that it left with her. 

To judge him ! Why did he wish that she should 
judge him ? And on what ? 

And yet with him it was not an insignificant word, 
but the evidence of a particular state of conscience, 
which many times since asserted itself. Was it not, in 
effect, to this order of ideas that the cry belonged that 
escaped him in the night when, waking suddenly, he 
asked with emotion, with fright : “ What have I said ? ” 
And also to the same appertained the anger that 
carried him away when, a propos of their religious mar- 
riage, she spoke of confession : “ Why do you think 

that I should be afraid to go to confession ? ” 

How could he imagine that she could admit the idea 
of fear in connection with him ? The idea never 
occurred to her mind until this moment ; and if now 
the memory of her astonishment came to her, it was 


Conscience. 


325 


because of other little things added to those of the past 
that evoked it. 

How numerous and significant they were, these things : 
his constant uneasiness on seeing himself watched by 
her ; his invitation when he thought she was going to 
question him ; his access of passion when, through 
heedlessness or forgetfulness, or simply by chance, she 
asked him a question on certain subjects, and immedi- 
ately the tenderness that followed, so sudden that they 
appeared rather planned in view of a determined end 
than natural or spontaneous. 

It was a long time before she admitted the calcula- 
tion under the sweet words that made her so happy ; 
but in the end it was well that she should open her 
eyes to the evidence, and see that they were with him 
the consequences of the same and constant preoccupa- 
tion, that of not committing himself. 

It was only one step from this to ask him what he 
did not wish to yield up. 

Yet, as short as it was, she resisted for a long time 
the curiosity that possessed her. It was her duty as a 
loving and devoted wife to not seek beyond what he 
showed her, and this duty was in perfect accord with 
the dispositions of her love ; but the power of things 
seen carried her beyond will and reason. She could 
not apply her mind to search for that which agonized 
her, and she could not close her eyes and ears to what 
she saw and heard. 

And what struck them were the same observations, 
turning always in the same circle, applied to the same 
subjects and persons : 

Caffie’s name irritated him ; Mme. Dammauville’s 
angered him ; Florentin’s made him positively un- 
happy. 

As for the two former, she might have prevented the 


326 


Conscience. 


pronunciation of them when she saw the effect they 
infallibly produced on him. 

But she could not prevent the utterance of Floren- 
tin’s name, even had she wished it. How could she 
tell her mother never to speak the name of him who 
was constantly in their thoughts ? 

In spite of Saniel’s efforts and solicitations, supported 
by Nougarede’s, Florentin had embarked for New 
Caledonia, whence he wrote as often as he could. 
His letters related his sufferings in the bagnio of the 
vessel where he was confined during the voyage, and 
since his arrival they were a series of long complaints, 
continued from one to the other, like a story without 
end, turning always on the same subject, his physical 
sufferings, his humiliation, his discouragement, and his 
disgust in the midst of the unfortunates whose com- 
panion he was. 

The arrival of these letters filled the mother and sis- 
ter with anguish that lasted for several days ; and this 
anguish, that neither of them could dissimulate, angered 
Saniel. 

“ What would you do if he were dead ” he asked 
Phillis. 

“ Would it not be better for him ? ” 

“ But he will return.” 

“ In what condition ? ” 

“ Are we the masters of fate ? ” 

“ We weep, we do not complain.” 

But he complained of the weeping faces that sur- 
rounded him, the tears they concealed from him, the 
sighs they stifled. Ordinarily he was tender and affec- 
tionate to his mother-in-law, with attention and defer- 
ence which in some ways seemed affected, as if he 
were so by will rather than by natural sentiment ; but 
at these times he forgot this tenderness, and treated her 


Conscience. 


327 


with hardness so unjust, that more than once Mme. 
Cormier spoke of it to her daughter. 

“ How can your husband, who is so good to me, be 
so merciless regarding Florentin ? One would say that 
our sadness produces on him the effect of a reproach 
that we would address to him.” 

One day when things had gone farther than usual, she 
had the courage to speak to him plainly : “ Forgive me 
for burdening you with the weariness of our disgrace,” 
she said to him. “ When I complain of everything, of 
men and things, you should remember that you are the 
exception, you who have done everything to save him.” 

But these few words that she believed would calm 
the irritation of her son-in-law, had on the contrary 
exasperated him ; he left her, furious. 

“ I do not understand your husband at all,” she said 
to her daughter. “ Will you not explain to me what 
the matter is with him ? ” 

How could she give her mother the explanation that 
she could not give herself ? Having reached an un- 
fathomable abyss, she dared not even lean over to look 
into its depths ; and instead of going on in the path 
where she was pledged in spite of herself, she made 
every effort to return, or at least to stop. 

What good would it do to find out why he was so 
peculiar, and what it was that he took so much pains 
to conceal ? This could only be idle curiosity on her 
part, for which she would be punished sooner or later. 

Turning these thoughts over continually in her mind 
she lost her gayety, her power to resist blows of fate, 
such as the small trials of life, which formerly made 
her courageous ; her vigorous elasticity sunk under the 
heavy weight with which it was charged, and her smil- 
ing eyes now more often expressed anxiety than happi- 
ness and confidence. 


32S 


Conscience. 


In spite of her watchfulness over herself she was not 
able to hide the change from Saniel, for it manifested 
itself in everything— in her face formerly so open, but 
which now bore the imprint of a secret sadness ; in her 
concentrated manner, in her silence and abstraction. 

What was the matter with her ? He questioned her, 
and she replied with the prudence that she used in all 
her conversation with him. He examined her med- 
ically, but found nothing to indicate a sickly condition 
which would justify the change in her. 

If she did not wish to answer his questions, and he 
had the proof that she did not wish to ; if, on the other 
hand, she was not ill, and he was convinced that she 
was not — there must be something serious the matter 
to make the woman whom but lately he read so easily 
become an enigma that made him uneasy. 

And this thing — if it were that whose crushing weight 
he himself carried on his bent shoulders? She divined, 
she understood, if not all, at least a part of the truth. 

What an extraordinary situation was hers, and one 
which might truly destroy her reason. 

Nothing to fear from others, everything from himself. 
Justice, law, the world — on all sides he was let alone ; 
nothing was asked of him ; that which was owed was 
paid ; but he by a sickly aberration was going to awake 
the dead who slept in their tomb, from which no one 
thought of taking them, and to make spectres of them 
which he alone saw and heard. 

And he believed himself strong. Fool that he was, 
and still more foolish to have taken such a charge when 
by the exercise of his will he did not place himself in 
a condition to carry it ! To will ! But he had not 
learned how to will. 


Conscicnee. 


329 


VII. 

The relative calm that Saniel had felt since his mar- 
riage he owed to Phillis ; to the strength, the confi- 
dence, the peace that he drew from her. Phillis with- 
out strength, without confidence, without interior peace, 
such as she was now, could not give him what she no 
longer had herself, and he returned to the distracted 
condition that preceded his marriage, and felt the same 
anguish, the same agitation, the same madness. The 
beautiful relations, worldly consideration, success, dec- 
orations, honors, were good for others; but for his 
happiness he required the tranquillity and serenity of 
his wife, and her good moral health which passed into 
him when she slept on his shoulder. In that case there 
were no sudden awakenings, no sleeplessness ; at the 
sound of her gentle respiration he was reassured, and 
the spectres remained in their tomb. 

But now that this respiration was agitated, and he no 
longer felt in her this tranquillity and serenity, he was 
no longer calm ; she was weak and uneasy, and she 
communicated her fever to him, not her sleep. 

“ You do not sleep. Whv do you not sleep ?” 

“And you?” 

He must know. 

He recommenced his questions, but she was always 
on her guard, so that he was unable to draw anything 
from her, checked as he was by the fear of betraying 
himself, which seemed easy at the point he believed 
she had reached. An awkward word, too much persist- 
ence, would let a flood of light into her mind. 

He also affected to speak as a physician when ques- 
tioning her, and to look for medical explanations of 
her condition. 


Conscience. 


330 


“ If you do not sleep it is because you suffer. What 
is this suffering ? From what does it proceed ? ” 

Having no reasons to give to justify it, since she 
did not even dare to speak of her brother, she denied 
it obstinately. 

“ But nothing is the matter with me, I assure you,” 
she repeated. “ What do you think is the matter ” 

“That is what I ask you.” 

“ Then I ask you : What do you think I conceal 
from you ? ” 

He could not say that he suspected her of conceal- 
ing anything from him. 

“ You do not watch yourself properly.” 

“ I can do nothing.” 

“ I will force you to watch yourself and to speak.” 

“How?” 

“ By putting you to sleep.” 

The threat was so terrible that she was beside herself. 

“ Do not do that ! ” she cried. 

They looked at each other for a few moments in 
silence, both equally frightened, she at the threat, he 
at what he would learn from her. But to show this 
fright was on his side to let loose another proof even 
more grave. 

“ Why should I not seek to discover in every way 
the cause of this uneasiness which escapes my examina- 
tion as well as yours ? For that somnambulism offers 
us an excellent way.” 

“ But since I am not ill, what more could I tell you 
when I am asleep than when I am awake ? ” 

“ We will see.” 

“ It is an experiment that I ask you not to attempt. 
Would you try a poison on me ? ” 

“ Somnambulism is not a poison.” 

“ Who knows ? ” 


Conscience. 


33T 


“ Those who have made use of it.” 

“ But you have not.” 

‘‘ Still I know enough to know that you will run no 
danger in my hands.” 

She believed that he opened a door of escape to her. 

“ Never mind, I am too much afraid. If you ever 
want to make me talk in a state of forced somnambu- 
lism, ask one of your confreres in whom you have con- 
fidence to put me to sleep.” 

Before a confrere she was certain he would not ask 
her dangerous questions. 

He understood that she wished to escape him. 

“ Afraid of w’hat ? ” he asked. “ That I shall ask you 
questions about the past, concerning your life before 
we knew each other, and demand a confession that 
would wound my love ? ” 

“ O Victor ! ” she cried, distracted. “ What more 
cruel wound could you give me than these words ? My 
confession ! It comprises two words : I love you ; I 
have never loved any one but you ; I shall never love 
any one but you. I have no past ; my life began with 
my love.” 

He could not press it without showing the impor- 
tance that he attached to it. 

“ I do not insist,” he said ; “ it is a way like any 
other, but better. You do not wish it, and we will not 
talk of it.” 

But he yielded too quickly for her to hope that he 
renounced his project, and she remained under the 
influence of a stupefying terror. What would she say 
if he made her talk ? Everything, possibly. She did 
not even know what thoughts were hidden in the depths 
of her brain, and she knew absolutely nothing of this 
forced somnambulism with which she was threatened. 

At this time the works of the school of Nancy on 


332 


Conscience. 


sleep, hypnotism, and suggestion, had not yet been pub- 
lished, or at least the book which served as their start- 
ing point was not known, and she knew nothing of pro- 
cesses that were employed to provoke the hypnotic 
sleep. As soon as her husband left the house she 
looked for some book in the library that would enlighten 
her. But the dictionary that she found gave only ob- 
scure or confused instructions in which she floundered. 
I'he only exact point that struck her was the method 
employed to produce sleep ; to make the subject look 
at a brilliant object placed from fifteen to twenty centi- 
metres in front of the eyes. If this were true she had 
no fear of ever being put to sleep. 

However, she was not reassured ; and when a few 
days later at a dinner she found herself seated next to 
one of her husband’s cofifrires., who she knew inter- 
ested himself in somnambulism, she had the courage to 
conquer her usual timidity concerning medicine, and 
questioned him. 

“Are there not persons with certain diseases who 
can be put into a state of somnambulism ? ” 

“ It was formerly believed by the public and by 
many physicians that only persons afflicted with hys- 
teria and nervous troubles could be put to sleep in this 
way, but it was a mistake ; artificial somnambulism 
may be produced on many subjects who are perfectly 
healthy.” 

“ Is the will preserved in sleep ? ” 

“ The subject only preserves the spontaneity and will 
that his hypnotizer leaves him, who at his pleasure 
makes him sad, gay, angry, or tender, and plays with 
his soul as with an instrument.” * 

“But that is frightful.” 

“ Curious, at least. It is certain that there is a local 
* H. Beaunis. Somnambulism provoquL 


Conscience. 


333 


paralysis of such or such a cell, the study of which is 
the starting point of many interesting discoveries.” 

“ When he wakes, does the subject remember what 
he has said ? ” 

“There is a difference of opinion on this point. 
Some say yes, and others no. As for me, I believe the 
memory depends upon the degree of sleep : with a 
light sleep there is remembrance, but with a profound 
sleep the subject does not remember what he has said 
or heard or done.” 

She would have liked to continue, and her compan- 
ion, glad to talk of what interested him would willingly 
have said more, but she saw her husband at the other 
end of the table watching them by fits and starts, and 
fearing that he would suspect the subject of their con- 
versation she remained silent. 

What she had just learned seemed to her frightful. 
But, at least, as she would not let herself be hypnotized 
she had nothing to fear ; and remembering what she 
had read, she promised herself that she would never let 
him place her in a position where he could put her to 
sleep. It was during the sleep that the will of the 
hypnotizer controlled that of the subject, not before. 

Resting on this belief, and also on his not having 
again spoken of sending her to sleep, she was reassured. 
Was not this a sign that he accepted her opposition and 
renounced his idea of provoked somnambulism ? 

But she deceived herself. 

One night when she had gone to bed at her usual 
hour while he remained at his work, she awoke sud- 
denly and saw him standing near her, looking at her 
with eyes whose fixed stare frightened her. 

“ What is the matter ? What do you want ? ” 

“Nothing, I want nothing ; I am going to bed.” 

In spite of the strangeness of his glance she did not 


334 


Conscience. 


persist ; questions would have taught her nothing. 
And besides, now that he no longer went to bed at the 
same time she did, there was nothing extraordinary in 
his attitude. 

But a few days from that she woke again in the night 
with a feeling of distress, and saw him leaning over her 
as if he would envelop her in his arms. 

This time, frightened as she was, she had the strength 
to say nothing, but her anguish was the more intense. 
Did he then wish to hypnotize her while she slept ? Was 
it possible ? Then the dictionary had deceived her ? 

In truth it was while she slept that Saniel tried to 
transform her natural into an artificial sleep. Would 
he succeed ? He knew nothing about it, for the ex- 
perience was new. But he risked it. 

The first time, instead of putting her into a state of 
somnambulism, he awoke her ; the second, he succeeded 
no better ; the third, when he saw that after a certain 
time she. did not open her eyes, he supposed that she 
was asleep. To assure himself, he raised her arm, 
which remained in the air until he placed it on the 
bed. Then taking her two hands, he turned them 
backward, and withdrawing his own, the impulsion 
which he gave lasted until he checked it. Her face 
had an expression of calmness and tranquillity that it 
had not had for a long time ; she was the pretty Phillis 
of other days, with the sprightly glance. 

^‘To-morrow I will make you sleep at the same 
time,” he said, “ and you will talk.” 

The next night he put her to sleep even more easily, 
but when he questioned her she resisted. 

“ No,” she said, “ I will not speak ; it is horrible. I 
will not, I cannot.” 

He insisted, but she would not. 

“Very well, so be it,” he said ; “not to-day, to-mor- 


Conscience. 


335 


row. But to-morrow I wish you to speak, and you shall 
not resist me ; I will it ! ” 

If he did not insist it was not only because he knew 
that habit was necessary to make her submit to his will 
without being able to defend herself, but because he 
was ignorant if, when she awoke, she retained any 
memory of what happened in her sleep, which was an 
important point. 

The next night she was the same as she had been the 
previous evening, and nothing indicated that she was 
conscious of her provoked sleep, any more than what 
she said in this sleep. He could then continue. 

This time she went to sleep sooner and more easily 
than usual, and her face took the expression of tran- 
quillity and repose that he saw the night before. Would 
she answer? And if she consented, would she speak 
sincerely, without attempting to weaken or falsify the 
truth ? Emotion made his voice tremble when he put 
the first question ; it was his life, his peace, the happi- 
ness of both which decided him. 

“ Where do you suffer ? ” he asked. 

“ I do not suffer.” 

“ Yet you are agitated, often melancholy or uneasy ; 
you do not sleep well. What troubles you ? ” 

“ I am afraid.” 

“ Afraid of what ? Of whom ? ” 

“Of you!” 

He trembled. 

“ Afraid of me ! Do you think that I could hurt 
you ? ” 

“ No.” 

His tightened heart relaxed. 

“ Then why are you afraid ? ” 

“ Because there are things in you that frighten me.” 

“ What things ? Be exact,” 


336 


Conscience, 


“ The change that has taken place in your temper, 
your character, and your habits.” 

“ And how do these changes make you uneasy ? ” 

“They indicate a serious situation.” 

“ What situation ? ” 

“ I do not know ; I have never stated exactly.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because I was afraid ; and I closed my eyes so 
that I might not see.” 

“ See what ? ” 

“ The explanation of all that is mysterious in your 
life.” 

“ When did you notice the mystery in my life ? ” 

“At the time of Caffie’s death ; and before, when 
you told me that you could kill him without any re- 
morse.” 

“ Do you know who killed Caffie ? ” 

“ No.” 

His relief was so great that for several moments he 
forgot to continue his interrogations. Then he went 
on : “ And after ? ” 

“ A little before the death of Mme. Dammauville, 
when you became irritable and furious without cause ; 
when you told me to go because you did not wish to 
see Mme. Dammauville ; when, the evening preceding 
her death, you were so tender, and asked me not to 
judge you without recalling that hour.” 

“ Yet you have judged me.” 

“ Never. When worry urged me, my love checked me.” 

“ What provoked this uneasiness outside of these 
facts ? ” 

“ Your manner of living since our marriage ; your ac- 
cess of anger and of tenderness ; your fear of being ob- 
served ; your agitation at night ; your complaints ” 

“ I talked ? ” he cried. 


Conscience. 


337 


‘‘ Never distinctly ; you groan often, and moan, 
pronouncing broken words without sense, unintelli- 
gible ” 

His anguish was violent ; when he recovered he 
continued : 

“ What is it in this way of living that has made you 
uneasy ? ” 

“ Your constant care not to commit yourself ” 

“ Commit myself how ? ” 

“ I do not know ” 

“ What else ? ” 

“ The anger that you show, or the embarrassment, 
when the name of Caffie is pronounced, Mme. Dam- 
mauville’s, and Florentin’s ” 

‘‘ And you conclude that my anger on hearing these 
three names ” 

“ Nothing — I am afraid ” 

VIII. 

This confession threw him into a state of confusion 
and agitation, for if it did not go beyond what he 
feared, yet it revealed a terrible situation. 

Clearly, as in an open book, he read her ; if she did 
not know all, she was but one step from the truth, and 
if she had not taken this step, it was because her love 
restrained her. If her love had been less strong, less 
powerful, she certainly y^ould not have withstood the 
proofs that pressed on her from all sides. 

But because she had held back so long, he must not 
conclude that the struggle would be continued in this 
way, and that a more violent blow, a stronger proof than 
the others, would not open her eyes in spite of herself. 

It only needed an imprudence, a carelessness on his 
part, and unluckily he could no longer be relied on. 

From what he had just learned it would be easy to 
22 


33 ^ 


Conscience. 


watch himself closely, and to avoid dangerous subjects, 
those that she described to him ; but if he could guard 
his words and looks during the day, neither saying nor 
letting anything appear that was an accusation, not con- 
firming the suspicions against which she struggled, he 
could not do it at night. 

He had not talked, and when she answered negatively 
to his question, she lifted a terribly heavy weight from 
his heart. But he had groaned and moaned, he had 
pronounced broken words without sense, and unintelli- 
gible, and there was the danger. 

What was necessary to make these sighs, these 
groans, these broken and unintelligible words become 
distinct and take a meaning ? A nothing, an accident, 
since his real cerebral tendency placed him up to a 
certain point in a somnambulistic state. Was this 
tendency congenital with him or acquired ? He did not 
know. Before the agitated nights following Mme. Dam- 
mauville’s death and Florentin’s condemnation, the idea 
had never occurred to him that he might talk in his sleep. 
But now he had the proof that the vague fears which 
had tormented him on this subject were only too well 
founded ; he did talk, and if the words that escaped him 
were not now' comprehensible, they might become so. 

Without having made a special study of sleep, natu- 
ral or induced, he knew that in the case of natural 
somnambulists a hypnotic sleep is easily produced, and 
that while holding a conversation with a subject who 
talks in his sleep one may readily hypnotize him. 
Without doubt he need not fear this from Phillis ; but 
it was possible that some night when incoherent words 
escaped him she would not be able to resist the tempta- 
tion to enter into a conversation with him, and to lead 
him to confess what she wished to know — what the love 
that she felt for her brother would drive her to wish to 


Conscience. 


339 


learn. If this opportunity presented itself, would the 
love for her brother or for her husband carry her away ? 
If she questioned him, what would he not say ? 

For the first time he asked himself if he had done 
right to marry, and if, on the contrary, he had not 
committed a mad imprudence in introducing a woman 
into a life so tormented as his. He had asked calmness 
from this woman, and now she brought him terror. 

To tell the truth, she was only dangerous at night ; 
and if he found a way to occupy another room he 
would have nothing to fear from her during the day, 
on condition that he held himself rigorously on the de- 
fensive. Loving him as she did, she would resist the 
curiosity that drew her ; if uneasiness drove her, her 
love would restrain her, as she herself had said ; little 
by little this uneasiness and curiosity, being no longer 
excited, would die out, and they would again enjoy the 
sweet days that followed their marriage. 

But in the present circumstances this way was diffi- 
cult to find, for to propose another room to Phillis 
would be equal to telling her that he was afraid of her, 
and consequently it would give her a new mystery to 
study. He reflected, and starting with the idea that 
the proposition of two rooms must come from Phillis, 
he arranged a plan which it seemed to him, would 
accomplish what he wished. 

Ignorant of the fact that she had been hypnotized, 
and not remembering that she had talked, without 
doubt Phillis still feared that he would hypnotize her ; 
he would threaten it again, and surely she would find a 
way to defend herself and escape from him. 

This is what happened. The next day, when he told 
her decidedly that he wished to put her to sleep in 
order that he might learn what troubled her, she showed 
the same fright as on the first time. 


34<5 


Conscience. 


“ All that you have asked of me, everything that you 
have desired, I have wished as you and with you ; but 
I will never consent to this.” 

“ Your resistance is absurd ; I will not yield to it.” 

“ You shall not put me to sleep against my will.” 

“ Easily.” 

“ It is not possible.” 

Without replying, he took a book from the library, 
and turning over the leaves, he read : “ Is it possible 
to make a sleeping person, without awaking him, pass 
from the natural to the hypnotic sleep ? The thing 
is possible, at least with certain subjects.” 

Then handing her the book : 

“You see that to put you to sleep artificially I need 
only the opportunity of finding you sleeping naturally. 
It is very simple.” 

“ That would be odious.” 

“ Those are words.” 

He threw her into such a state of terror that she 
kept awake all night, and as he would not sleep for fear 
of talking, he felt that she exerted every faculty to 
keep awake. But had he not gone fbo far ? And by 
this threat would he not drive her to some desperate 
act ? If she should escape, if she deserted him — what 
would become of him without her ? Was she not his 
whole life ? But he reassured himself by saying that 
she loved him too much ever to consent to a separa- 
tion. Without doubt, she herself would come to think 
as he wished her to think. 

And yet when he returned home in the evening she 
told him that her mother was not well, and begged him 
to examine her. This examination proved that Mme. 
Cormier was in her usual health ; but she complained 
that her breath failed her — during the day she had 
feared syncope. 


Conscience. 


341 


“If you are willing,” Phillis said, “ I will sleep near 
mamma. I am afraid of not hearing her at night, and 
she is suffering.” 

He began by refusing, then he consented to this 
arrangement ; and to thank him for it she stayed with 
him in his office, affectionate, full of tenderness and 
caresses, until he went to his room. 

He was then free to sleep or not ; whether he groaned 
or talked she could not hear him, since there was no 
communicating door between his room and that of his 
mother-in-law ; his voice certainly would not penetrate 
the partition. 

Who could have told him on the night that he 
decided to marry, that he would come to such a pass— 
to be afraid, to hide himself from her who brought him 
the calmness of sleep ; and that by his fault, by a chain 
of imprudences and stupidities, as if it were written that 
in everything he would owe his sufferings to himself, 
and that if he ever succumbed to the whirlwind that 
swept him along, it would be by his own deed, by his 
own hand ? At last he had assured the tranquillity of 
his nights, and as a further precaution, although he did 
not fear that Phillis would enter his room while he 
slept, to surprise him — she who dared not look in the 
face what suspicion showed her — he locked his door. 
Naturally, Phillis could not always sleep with her 
mother ; but he would find a way to frankly suggest 
their sleeping apart, and surely he could find one in the 
storehouse of medicine. 

These cares and similar fears were not of a nature to 
dispose him to sleep, and besides for a long time he had 
suffered from an exasperating nervous insomnia. As 
the night was warm he thought a little fresh air would 
cairn him, and he opened the window ; if this freshness 
did not calm him, at least it would make him sleep. 


34 ^ 


Conscience. 


Obliged to improvise a bed in her mother’s room, 
Phillis placed it against the partition that separated her 
from her husband, but without preconcerted intention, 
simply by accident, because it was the only place where 
she could put the bed. A little after midnight an 
unusual noise awoke her ; she sat up to listen and to re- 
cover herself. It seemed as if this noise came from her 
husband’s room. Alarmed, she placed her ear against 
the partition. She was not deceived ; they were stifled 
groans, moans that were repeated at short intervals. 

Carefully yet quickly she left her bed, and as the 
dawn was already shining in the windows, she was able 
to leave the room without making any noise. Reach- 
ing the door of her husband’s room she listened ; she 
was not deceived ; they were indeed groans, but louder 
and sadder than those she had so often heard during 
the night. She tried the door, but it was evidently 
locked on the inside. What was the matter with him ? 
She must know, must go to him, and give him relief. 
She thought of knocking, of shaking the door ; but as he 
did not reply when she tried to open it, it was because 
he did not hear or did not wish to hear. Then she 
thought of the terrace ; from there she could see what 
happened, and if it were necessary she would break a 
pane to enter. 

She found the window open and saw her husband on 
the bed, sleeping, his head turned towards her ; she 
stopped and asked herself if she should cross the 
threshold and wake him. 

At this moment, with closed lips, he pronounced sev- 
eral words more distinctly than those that had so many 
times escaped him : “ Phillis — forgive.” 

He dreamed of her. Poor, dear Victor! for what did 
he wish her to pardon him ? Doubtless for having; 
threatened to hypnotize her. 


Conscience. 


343 


Overcome by this proof of love she put her head 
through the opening of the window to give him a look 
before returning to her mother, but on seeing his face in 
the full white light of the morning, she was frightened ; it 
expressed the most violent sorrow, the features convulsed 
with anguish and horror at the same time. Surely he was 
ill. She must wake him. Just as she took a step toward 
him he began to speak : “ Your brother — or me? ” 

She stopped as if thunderstruck, then instinctively 
she drew back and clung to the window in the vestibule 
to keep herself from falling, repeating those two words 
that she had just heard, not understanding, not wishing 
to understand. 

Instead of returning to her mother, trembling and 
holding on to the wall she entered the parlor and let 
herself fall into a chair, prostrated, crushed. 

“ Your brother, or me ? ” 

This was, then, the truth, the frightful truth that she 
had never wished to see. 

She stayed there until the noises in the street warned 
her that it was getting late, and she might be surprised. 
Then she returned to her mother. 

‘‘ I am going out,” she said ; “ I will return at half- 
past eight or nine o’clock.” 

“ But your husband will not see you before going to 
the hospital.” 

“ You will tell him that I have gone out.” 

She returned at half-past nine. Mme. Cormier had 
finished dressing. 

“ At last you have come,” she said. 

But at sight of her daughter’s face she saw that some- 
thing had happened. “ My God ! What is the mat- 
ter ? ” she asked, trembling. 

“ Something serious — very serious, but unfortunately 
it is irreparable. We must leave here, never to return.” 


344 


Conscience. 


“Your husband ” 

“ You must never speak to me of him. This the 
only thing I ask of you.” 

“ Alas ! I understand. It is what I foresaw, what I 
said would happen. You cannot bear the contempt that 
he shows us on account of your brother.” 

“ We must hereafter be strangers to each other, and 
this is why we leave this house.” 

“ My God ! At my age, to drag my bones ” 

“ I have engaged a lodging at the Ternes ; a wagon 
will come to take the furniture that belongs to us, 
what we brought here, only that. We will tell the 
concierge that we are going to the country. As for 
Josephine, you need not fear indiscreet questions, for 
1 have given her a day off.” 

“ But the money ? ” 

“ I have two hundred francs from the sale of my 
last picture ; that is enough for the present. Before 
they are gone 1 shall have painted and sold another ; 
do not worry, we shall have all we need.” 

All this was said in a hard but resolute tone. 

A ring of the bell interrupted them. It was the 
express wagon. 

“ See that they do not take what does not belong 
to us,” Phillis said. “ While they fill their wagon I will 
write in the parlor.” 

At the end of an hour the wagon was ready. 
Madame Cormier entered the parlor to tell her daughter. 

“ I have finished,” Phillis said. 

Having placed her letter in an envelope, she laid it 
in full view on Saniel’s desk. 

“ Now let us go,” she said. 

And as her mother sighed, while walking with diffi- 
culty : 

“ Lean on me, dear mamma, you know I am strong.” 


Conscience. 


345 


% 

IX. 

Saniel did not return until quite late in the after- 
noon. When he opened the door with his key he was 
surprised at not seeing his wife run to him and kiss him. 

“ She is painting,” he said to himself, “ she did not 
hear me.” 

He passed into the parlor, convinced that he would 
find her at her easel ; but he did not see her, and the 
easel was not in its usual place, there nor anywhere else. 

He knocked at the door of Mme. Cormier’s room, but 
there was no reply ; he knocked louder a second time, 
and after waiting a moment he entered. The room 
was empty ; there was no bed, no furniture, no one. 

Stupefied, he looked around him, then returning to 
the vestibule he called : “ Phillis ! Phillis ! ” 

There was no reply. He ran to the kitchen, no one 
was there ; he went into his office, no one there. But 
as he looked about him, he saw Phillis’s letter on his 
desk, and his heart leaped ; he grasped it eagerly, and 
opened it with a trembling hand. It was as follows : 

“ I have gone, never to return. My despair and dis- 
gust of life are such, that without my mother and the 
poor being who is so far away, I should kill myself ; 
but in spite of the horror of my position I was obliged 
to reflect, and I do not wish to aggravate by folly the 
wickedness that is going on about me. My mother is 
no longer young ; she is ill and has suffered cruelly. 
Not only do I owe it to her to brighten her old age by 
my presence, by the material and moral support that I 
can give her, but she must have faith that I am there 
to replace her, and to open my arms to her son, to my 
brother. The least that I can do for them is to wait 
courageously for him ; and, however weary, terrible, or 
frightful my life maybe hereafter, I shall bear it so that 


34^ 


Conscience. 


the unfortunate, the pariah, whom a pitiless fate has pur- 
sued, will find on his return a hearth, a home, a friend. 
This will be my only object, my reason for living ; and 
in order to save myself from sluggishness and weariness, 
my thoughts will always be on the time when he will 
return, he whom I will call my child, and whom my 
love must save and cure. I know that long years sepa- 
rate me from that day, and that until it comes my 
broken heart will never have a moment of repose ; but 
I shall employ this time in working for him, for the 
brother, for the child, for the cherished being who will 
come to me aged and desperate ; and I wish that he 
may yet believe in something good, that he will not 
imagine everything in this world is unjust and infamous, 
for he will return to me weighed down by twenty years 
of shame, of degrading and undeserved shame. How 
will he bear these twenty years ? What efforts must I 
not make to prove to him that he should not abandon 
himself to despair, and that life often offers the remedy, 
compassion to the most profound, to the most unjust 
human sorrows ? How can I make him believe that ? 
How lead his poor heart, closed to confidence, to feel- 
ing, to the tears that alone can relieve it ? God who 
has so sorely tried me, without doubt will come to my 
aid, and will inspire me with words of consolation, will 
show me the path to follow, and give me the strength 
to persevere. Have I not already to thank Him for 
being alone in the world, outside of a mother and 
brother who will not betray me ? I have no chil- 
dren, and I am spared the terror of seeing a soul 
growing in evil, an intelligence escaping from me to 
follow the path of infamy or dishonor. I leave, then, 
as I came. I was a poor girl, I go away a poor woman. 
I have taken the clothing and personal objects that I 
brought into our common home, nothing that was 


Conscience. 


347 


bought with your money ; and I forbid you to interfere 
with iny wish in this question of material things, as well 
as in my resolution to fly from you. Nothing can ever 
reunite us ; nothing shall reunite us, no consideration, no 
necessity. I reject the past, this guilty past, the respon- 
sibility of which weighs so heavily on my conscience, and 
I would like to lose the memory of the detested time. 
It would be impossible for me to accept the struggle, 
or supplications if you think it expedient to make any. 
I have cut our bonds, and hereafter we shall be as far 
apart as if one of us were dead, or even farther. Have 
no scruples, then, in leaving me alone to face a new life, 
a beginning that may appear difficult to one not situated 
as I am. The trials of former times were good for me, 
since they accustomed me to the difficulties of work. 
The desolation of to-day will sustain me, in the sense that 
having suffered all I can suffer, I no longer fear some dis- 
couraging catastrophe that will check me in my resolu- 
tions. In order not to compromise you, and to more 
fully become myself again, I shall take my family name 
— a dishonored name — but I shall bear it without shame. 
I shall live obscurely, absorbed in work and in trying 
to forget your existence ; do the same yourself. If you 
think of the past, you will find, perhaps, that I am hard ; 
yet this departure is notan egotistic desertion. I am no 
good to you, and the repose that you want would shun 
you hereafter in my presence. On the contrary, strive 
for forgetfulness, as I shall. If you contrive to wipe 
out of your life the part that is associated with me, per- 
haps you will be able to banish the remainder, and to 
recover some of the calm of other days. I can no 
longer remember that I have loved you, for my position 
is such that I have not the refuge of memory ; at my 
age I must remain without a past as without a future ; 
the consolation of fhe unfortunate is lost to me with 


34 ^ 


Conscience. 


everything else. I cannot rise out of my sorrow to try 
to find one hour when life was sweet to me ; those 
hours, on the contrary, make me tremble, and I reproach 
myself for them as if it were a crime. Thus, whichever 
way I turn, I find only sadness and sharp regrets ; 
everything is blighted, dishonored for me.” 

Standing in the centre of his office he read this 
hastily written letter breathlessly. Arrived at the end 
he looked about him vaguely. His chair was near his 
desk ; he let himself fall into it and remained there 
prostrated, holding the letter in his shaking hand. 

“ Alone ! ” 

It was an October afternoon, dark and muddy ; in 
the Rue des Saints-Peres, in front of the houses that 
hide the Charity Hospital, coupes were standing, and 
their long line extended to the Boulevard Saint-Ger- 
main, where the coachmen having left their seats, talked 
together like persons who were accustomed to meet 
each other. At half-past four o’clock, in the deepening 
twilight, men with grave looks and dark clothes — mem- 
bers of the Academy of Medicine — the Tuesday sitting 
over, issued from the porch, and entered their carriages. 
Some of them, alone, briskly, in a great hurry ; others 
were accompanied by skilful tardiness, stopping to talk 
politely to a journalist, and to give him notes of the 
day’s meeting, or continuing, with a co7ifrere who 
was not an Academician, the conversation begun in 
the room of the pas-perdus j it was the Bourse of con- 
sultations that was just closed. All the members of 
the Academy have not, in truth, a long list of patients 
to visit ; but each one has a vote to give, and they are 
those whom the candidates surround, trying to win them. 

One of the Academicians who appeared the last at 
the top of the steps was a man of great height but 


Conscience. 


349 


bent figure, with hollow cheeks and pale face lighted 
by pale blue eyes with a strange expression, both hard 
and desolate at the same time. He advanced alone, 
and his heavy gait and dragging step gave him the 
appearance of a man sixty years of age, while in other 
ways he retained a certain youthfulness. It was 
Saniel, twenty years older. 

Without exchanging a bow or a hand-shake with any 
one, he descended to the pavement and walked to the 
boulevard, where he opened the door of a coupS whose 
interior showed a complete ambulant library — a writ- 
ing table with paper, ink, and lamp, pockets full of 
books and pamphlets. 

Just as he was about to enter, a voice stopped him. 

He turned ; it was one of his old pupils, who had 
recently become a physician in the suburb of Gentilly. 

“ What is it ? ” asked Saniel. 

“ I want to ask you to come and assist me in a curious 
case of spasms, whereyour intervention may be decisive.’* 

“ Where ? ” 

“ At the Maison-Blanche, a poor woman. What day 
could you give me ? ” 

“ Is it urgent ? ” 

“ Yes.*’ 

In that case I will go at once. Give the address 
to my coachman, and get in with me.” 

But at this moment a white-haired man dressed in 
chestnut velvet, wearing a felt hat and sabots, came 
towards them, accompanied by two young men with 
whom he discoursed in a loud tone while gesticulating. 
Pec^ple turned to look at them, so original was the 
appearance of old Brigard, the same man from head 
to feet as he had always been. 

He came to Saniel with outstretched hands, and Saniel, 
taking off his hat, received him with marked respect. 


350 


Conscience. 


“ Enchanted to meet you,” Brigard said, “ for I went 
to your office yesterday and did not find you.” 

“ Why did you not send me word beforehand ? If 
you need me I am at your disposal.” 

“ Thanks, but happily I do not need your advice, 
neither for myself nor my family ; it was simply that 
I wished to see you. Arriving at your house before 
your office hours, I waited in your reception-room and 
several patients came after'* me — a young woman who 
appeared to suffer cruelly, an old lady who was ex- 
tremely anxious, and lastly a man who had some nerv- 
ous disease that would not permit him to sit still. 
And, looking at them, I said to myself that as I was 
only making a friendly visit I would not remain and 
prolong the waiting of these unfortunates who counted 
the minutes, so I came away.” 

“ May I ask to what do I owe the honor of this visit ? ” 
The two young men who accompanied Brigard, and 
Saniel’s old pupil discreetly withdrew. 

“ The desire to present you my congratulations. When 
I learned of your candidature to the Academy of Medi- 
cine I said to myself : Here is one who has no chance ; 
friend Saniel has originality and force ; he has suc- 
ceeded brilliantly, and these qualities are not exactly 
academic. I was deceived. You have broken open the 
doors, which is the only way that I understand of enter- 
ing these places. That is why I congratulate you. 

And, besides, I did you wrong formerly ” 

“ Wrong ? You ? ” 


“ I accused you of beli^in^ yourself stronger than 
life ; in truth you were. My compliments ! ” 

After having warmly pressed Saniel’s hands, he went 
on his way with his two disciples, preaching to them. 
The young doctor approached Saniel. 

He is an original,” he said, “ A happy man,” 













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